


Hail The Marquess! A Fire Emblem Story

by SpareTimeEntertainment



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9262781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpareTimeEntertainment/pseuds/SpareTimeEntertainment
Summary: Jubilation in Caelin! On the fourth anniversary of his ascension to the seat, the great Marquess Eliwood of Pherae is to be honoured on a night of celebrations hosted by his dear friend, the Lady Lyndis. But despite the lavish presentation for her honoured guest, Lyn's heart is torn. With her own lordship imminent and her seat of Caelin guaranteed, would-be courtiers are flocking like vultures - but the most heartfelt and unassuming one of all is Lyn's own dearly beloved Florina. Meek as ever, Florina would need a miracle - or a master plan - to win Lyn's heart. Fortunately for her, a familiar tactician just rode back into town...Spare Time Entertainment is proud to present a romantic comedy - where the war of the heart is waged in cavalry charges of passion and phalanx formations of love, where old friends and familiar faces have just one night to enshrine a love long adored. It's a race against time (and a hell of a good time) in...HAIL THE MARQUESS!





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally a request for a dear friend, whose Tactician was quite the misanthrope. Even though the name has been changed to canon default of 'Mark', all characterisation choices have been left intact - the grudges, the cynicism, and the general weariness of tone. Despite this, I hope you come to love this Tactician in reading him, just as I did in writing him.

\--

The way is dark, the light is dim,

But now there's you, me, her, and him.

Stephen Sondheim

\--

 

Lyn flung the double doors wide open, and instantly the small army of servants, planners, vassals and caterers were upon her with questions and demands. The myrtle-headed woman caught sight of her most trusted man, and with a sharp intake of preparatory breath, began.

“So, Kent, give it to me straight. How ready are we?”

“Milady!” He was formal to a fault, the ginger-haired knight falling in behind her as she continued her stride down the arterial hallways of Castle Caelin. “The last shipment of ale arrived this afternoon and the kitchens are wrapped up on all foodstuffs that can be prepared before tomorrow.”

“Those cooks better be asleep right now.” The Sacean girl’s wild eyes darted between the other occupants of the hallway as they pressured her for signatures and directions on other matters of importance.

“Some in their chairs, milady, but yes. They’ll be ready and rested for tomorrow.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Kent. Wil?”

“Ma’am!” Wil put a spring in his step and pushed himself to the front of the throng. “All but a few of the suites are good and warm. The Ostian Suite is suitably plush for El- the Marquess and his lady.”

“Look at me, putting archers and knights on party preparation,” Lyn grumbled. “What about Lord Pent and Lady Louise’s suite? What’d you decide to do there?”

“Well, considering that Louise sent news of her pregnancy recently, and they already have a strong record of non-attendance from Ostia’s events…”

“They did give us back a ‘yes’ on the invitation.”

“As they did three times in Ostia. You know Pent. He’s above it all. Or at least, he wants to be.”

Lyn smiled. “I can always trust you, Wil. Thanks. See you tomorrow. Oh, and Wil?”

The archer, already a few steps away, spun around to face his charge again. “Hm?”

“Any sign of our missing egghead?”

Wil remained quiet for a moment before replying. “No, ma’am.” He replied regretfully, then bowed slightly to take his leave. As Wil lead his army of nursemaids back towards the guest suites, Lyn swallowed her disappointment as she paused to offer her opinion on a vase’s flower arrangement. She faced the corridor again to continue, only this time she could not find her intended lieutenant.

“Where is that Sain?” she muttered, not finding him among the familiar faces of Castle Caelin’s attendants and upkeep staff. She began to tend to their requests one by one, offering opinion, counsel, and compromise on matters of preparation and planning. She tackled a belligerent complaint about the lord-to-lady ratio of a few suites, confirmed that the _hors d’oeuvres_ did indeed need more sour cream to offset the salmon taste, and signed off on a warrant allowing the resident archivist to transport and display the delicate treasures of House Caelin for the festivities, among other tasks. At last, the crowd began to thin and then dispersed completely as, their worries allayed, the vassals retreated to their duties. Lyn breathed a sigh of relief, her shoulders sinking in exhaustion as tiredness swept over her.

“He isn’t even here yet and I already want him gone. What kind of friend does that make me?”

“You’re… you’re a very wonderful friend, my lady-” this new voice stopped itself. “Lyn.”

Lyn had held a suspicion that her shadow had been here. She smiled at the first inclination of the voice and now swung around to behold Florina. The girl, with long pearlescent locks flowing down to the white and blue uniform of the Ilian Pegasus Knights she wore dutifully in Lyn’s presence, was leaning relaxedly against the wall – but quickly straightened herself up when Lyn turned to face her.

“I was hoping I’d see you around before tomorrow!” Lyn exclaimed, going over to the girl’s side. “I tell you,” she grumbled, “I’m not looking forward to seeing all of Lycia’s assorted lords and bachelors tomorrow. You’d better stay close to me so that none of them try anything, on you or me!”

“On me?” Florina swallowed meekly.

Lyn let out a prolonged, singular sarcastic laugh. “Florina, don’t trust a lord if he doesn’t have a lady. And if he does have a lady, trust him even less!”

Florina smiled meekly, but couldn’t help but ask the question on her mind. “Lyn, are you going to… well, do you think there’ll be a Lord who’ll try to… um…”

Lyn turned her gaze down to her junior, whose eyes stared up at her in obvious concern.

“Hey,” Lyn said, throwing her a reassuring smile. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ve not yet met a man, much less a lord of Lycia, worthy of taking my side on Caelin’s throne!”

“N-not even someone like Lord Hector?”

Lyn’s eyes narrowed. “Especially not him.”

The two shared a laugh, but it was a brief one. Lyn was exhausted – it had been a long couple of days. The kitchens had been working at full capacity, every vineyard in Caelin had been squeezed to their last drops, and staff had been working around the clock to ensure a fantastic event was about to ensue. Indeed, the party itself tomorrow merely seemed like a formality to observe after the genuinely herculean task of cleaning the city, stocking the pantries, and rallying the citizenry. Lyn, in particular, had good reason to feel drained. The novelty of her unique position as a legitimate heir that had spent most of her life outside the regency meant that she enjoyed a bond with the commonfolk much different from the usual lordling, and preparation for this event had meant many hours of mediating between crown and commerce.

Florina’s quietness, however, seemed not to stem from tiredness – certainly, compared to the tasks their other compatriots had laboured with, she had been barely burdened at all – but from concern, either for the health or the safety of her stronger friend. Lyn’s bravado lost its temporary bolster and Florina was unable to stop herself from opening her arms and wrapping the other woman in a warm embrace.

“Hey, what’s this?” Lyn asked sweetly, surprised but endeared by the sudden motion. “We’re gonna be just fine. Is everything okay?”

Florina swallowed, summoning her bravery as best she could, and trying her best to rouse the concern at her core. “Lyn, I-”

“Lyn! There you are!”

The sudden new voice made both women jump slightly and wheel around to face the oncoming, familiar voice. Brimming with braggadocio and perpetually light-headed due to lack of concerns, the verdant knight Sain swaggered towards them in his usual way. “And what a sight! Florina also!” he exclaimed, seeing the two of them held together. “Just the kind of goodwill this castle needs!”

Lyn broke away from the shorter girl and placed her hands on her hips, throwing the knight a tired smile that outwardly gave an irritated expression, but inwardly contained zero malice. “Sain! Was I not looking for you earlier?”

“Well, my fair lady, if you were seeking and could not find, it was only because I was working tirelessly for you!” he exclaimed. “You will find cause for forgiveness when you see the dining hall – it may as well be a museum of Lycia’s finest art! And I swear, you can run your finger down any length of wall and find not a speck of dust, or I’ll tender my resignation-”

Lyn cut him short with a grin and a shake of the head. “It’ll be fine, Sain. I trust you on that, at least,” she sighed, rolling her shoulders to stretch the muscles free of tension. “What I do need reassurance on is the seating plan. Tell me that’s all done.”

“Ah. Yes.” Sain shuffled nervously from one foot to the other, holding his next words in his mouth as long as he could before blurting them out in a hurry – “not yet finalised.”

“What?! Oh Sain, come on now!” Lyn expelled her breath in genuine stress. “I’d rather the hall be a total mess and that seating plan be finished!”

“Not to worry, milady, not to worry…” Sain was eager to reassure her. “At least this way, only I have to work through the night as opposed to all the cleaning staff…?”

Lyn exhaled, regaining her composure. “Good point. I hadn’t thought about it that way. I trust you, Sain.”

Sain threw her an apologetic smile as Lyn pressed a tired hand against her head and closed her eyes for a moment. Florina instinctively offered the woman a supporting hand.

“Alright,” Lyn said. “I’m going to retire now so I can be prepared to meet old firehead in the morning.” The comment drew a brief chuckle out of Sain, and wordlessly the three started walking towards Lyn’s own chambers. It was as they passed into the south corridors that Lyn stopped, her eye seemingly caught by one of the paintings on the decorated oak walls.

“I thought I told you to take this one down, Sain,” she sighed tiredly. “Tell me you just forgot about it.”

“I won’t have blame if you don’t believe me, milady,” Sain replied, “but everywhere else is done. I just find this painting intoxicating. I think it should stay.”

The painting was a rich cerulean piece of snow and ice, a woman in perfect blue nakedness surrounded by the enormity and contrast of a vibrant orange dragon which coiled around her form in powerful musculature. The didactic beneath it read: ‘The Scourge of Elibe’.

“Oh no, I love it too,” Lyn said. “But do you really think _he_ would? Did you not travel with the guy?”

“Milady?”

“We’re talking about the biggest, proudest, noblest-from-birth righteous do-gooder ever to walk Lycia. This is the man whose first act as Marquess was to throw a festival just to see his mother smile. This is the man who married a dragon refugee. By the Saint, just thinking about him has me hearing violins. So no, I don’t think this painting is gonna pass by the great Marquess Eliwood.”

 

\--

SPARE TIME ENTERTAINMENT PRESENTS

HAIL THE MARQUESS!

A FIRE EMBLEM STORY

\--

 

Perhaps an hour later, the door to a local bar swung open and in filtered the retainers-turned-party-planners; Sain first, entering with a familial shout to the occupants, then Kent, then Wil wiping his boots clean of gravel on the entry mat, and finally Florina taking off a mauve cardigan as she stepped into the warmth and smoke of the tavern. The place was dim and warm, slight fires flickering at frequent intervals along the walls and ceiling, orange light doing its best to penetrate the haze of smoke and talk that permeated the space.

“Noble sirs!” The barkeep, a tall bearded man of middling age, shouted at them with no small hint of sarcasm. “And Dame Florina.”

Florina curtsied with a slight chuckle as he extended the welcome. Sain had already touched base with at least three other tables by the time he responded to the greeting, leaning on the counter.

“What’s new, Ezra?”

“Nothing much,” the barkeep growled back with a fond grin. “This big party the Lady is throwin’ ‘as gone’nd brought all kinds of country bumpkins into the city, though. I almost don’t have enough drink.”

“Allow me to worsen that, my good man!” Sain chuckled, then with an air of eager glee turned to face the bulk of the bar and yelled as loud as was comfortable:

“GOOD FOLK OF CAELIN, DRINKS ARE ON ME!”

A loud roar of enthusiastic approval did the rounds of the space as Sain harassed Ezra with his smug grin, watching one man after another quickly empty their tankards down their throats, eager for the next cupful – now consequence-free.

“Sain, you big pile of- pardon me, my lady.” Ezra quickly caught the admonishing before it emerged as he reminded himself of Florina’s presence. Florina smiled and shook her head politely to indicate the complete absence of offence. Ezra then turned to damage control, yelling out – “Ale and wine only, you bandits! Nothing fancy, just the house swill!”

A brief grumble from the other patrons, which was renewed into laughter as one mischievous woman piped up, “as long as you’re admitting it’s swill, barkeep!”

Ezra lazily waved off the jab as he turned back to the group. “Anyway. I’m afraid your usual table’s been taken. Bloke arrived an hour or two before you guys and hasn’t moved an inch since.”

They stole a glance at the booth which Ezra usually reserved for them on nights before days off – a cosy table in the corner with a window, perfectly seating six as Lyn joined them more often than not. It seemed dark and gloomy now, not just due to its relative emptiness and single candle, but due to its lone occupant, an unmoving man in scholarly velvet robes of Castleton green. They were the only remarkable part of his wear, done up over a white shirt and brown trousers of no particular prestige. He was buried in a thick, leather-bound book, his face invisible as his hood hung low over his face.

“Makes for an eerie image.” Wil mused. “A shaman, maybe?”

“That’s not our business,” Kent added. “Can he be convinced to move?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Ezra replied honestly. “He insisted upon that table exactly, saying he wanted no interruption. Only looked up once to order broth earlier. Nothing before or since.”

Florina looked closely at the hooded figure, gears in her brain turning as something about the man’s posture and countenance began to seem oddly familiar to her.

“Come to think of it,” the barkeep mused, “I’ve not even seen his face.”

“By the Saint – is that you, Sain and Kent?”

The new voice, a gentle and serene one, made all five heads in the conversation turn to face its source. There, highlighted in firelight as it approached, was a figure of feminine build, golden hair layered in a short, concave cut.

“Goodness! Wil and Florina too!”

The figure stepped into the wider light, slight hips and delicate features revealing a familiar man whose smile was a source of illumination in and of itself. Dressed in the white and blue habit of the Etrurian church, the flash of recognition went through the gathered people, and Florina was the first to gasp:

“Lucius?”

The monk in question beamed in obvious delight and walked forward, bowing reverently to the group.

“You guys know each other?” Ezra asked in disbelief.

“Yes, good sir,” Lucius replied, polite to a fault. “I met these knights in service of the Lady Lyndis, as we helped her foil that tyrant of an uncle.”

The barkeep laughed loudly. “Of course. Not just enough for you to be a saint, you’re a saint who helped bring down Lundgren.” He sighed. “Well, no charge for you, either.”

Lucius chuckled. “That is appreciated, sir, but unnecessary. I am no saint – I serve the Saint.”

“Yeah, yeah, holy man.” Ezra laughed as he retreated into the back to escape this collection of misfits. “Stow it before I reconsider marking your rent zero, too. Gotta get into heaven, after all.”

“Lucius, you big fruit!” Sain greeted the acolyte, clapping his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Were you really planning to pass through Caelin and not drop in once for lunch?”

“Well,” the monk replied, now much more at ease among old comrades. “We knew that we would be in town for Eliwood’s visit, so we thought maybe we could say hello briefly if Lyndis wasn’t too busy before the feast.”

“Forget that!” Wil chimed in. “Count yourself at the table now. Hope you have some good clothes on you.”

“The benefits of being a priest,” Lucius calmly japed, “in every house I dine in, from commoners to kings, I need wear nothing but this.”

This caused Florina to chuckle. Lucius was, after all, one of the few men she felt completely at ease with – due mostly to their familiar history, but also in no small part due to his softer features and unthreatening profession. Having him around set her more at ease, even though she _should’ve_ been calm in this familiar place with some of her best friends. She realised that her distraction was all-consuming, her heart still pounding and her mind still racing at the thought of the feast tomorrow.

“Wait just a moment,” Kent suddenly realised. “Lucius, who’s ‘we’?”

“Ah…” Lucius hesitated, not noticing the figure approaching from behind.

“Hey, Lulu, let’s get a move on. Room’s finally ready-” the taller man stopped at Lucius’ side, suddenly taking note of who the priest was talking to. The hard-eyed man took stock of the room’s other occupants with an expression somewhere between a friendly smirk and a grimace, as both familiarity and annoyance played out on the face of Lord Raymond of Cornwell.

Or, as he was perhaps better known, Raven.

Across the room, the mysterious figure seated at their usual booth seemed to sink slightly lower into their seat. As if to punctuate the sudden awkwardness, Wil piped up.

“Alright, who else is hiding in this damned tavern?”

\--

“An orphanage, huh? That’s so like you, Lucius,” Florina sighed.

The group had occupied the table that fell next to their preferred seating, with six stools pulled up around a hearty, weathered wooden table long yellowed under years of usage. All of them nursed drinks in their hands save Lucius, who was sharing a small bowl of salted dry nuts with Raven.

“Well, I thought it would be the best way to act out Elimine’s mercy directly,” Lucius replied with a peaceable shrug. “Besides, a place to settle down would be nice. He’ll never admit it to you, but Lord Raymond is tiring of the mercenary’s life.”

Raven cast a sideways glance at his travelling companion and nodded imperceptibly.

“Alright, I have to ask before it gets awkward,” Sain started.

Lucius and Raven tensed in their seats instinctively, eyes immediately darting to the green knight, whose line of inquiry hung in the air menacingly.

“…do you prefer Raymond or Raven? I mean, I know you were travelling incognito, but I heard that’s all resolved now, so…”

The auburn-haired man jolted in relief and cut Sain off. “I’m fine with being known as Raymond now. But to you all I was Raven, so I’ve no problem with still being called by that name. You’re of a… a select few.”

“That we are!” Wil agreed heartily, raising his tankard of ale. “Lyndis’ Legions!”

“There flies the spirit!” Sain chimed in, following suit. He was followed by Florina and Kent – even Lucius raised his token cup of water from the table. Raven just laughed coolly and took another swig of his draught.

“So, how are things doing with the feast?” Lucius asked politely. “Are things all prepared?”

Sain scoffed. “Everything except the seating plan. Man, I’m going to be up all night…”

Kent gently nudged him on the shoulder. “It’s your own fault, Sain. If you spent less time being a cad…”

At this Lucius chuckled in a way that could only be described as cutely, an angelic motion complete with his forefingers brought to his mouth in a moment of innocent humour. The group turned to face him, and Raven even reassuringly placed his hand on the Monk’s back. Lucius leaned his head on cupped hands, taking in the full sight of his old friends.

“I’m just so happy that here, at least, nothing has changed. Green transgresses, red reprimands.” He sighed happily. He then took a few nuts from the bowl and began chewing.

“I must ask,” Raven interjected, “will Hector be at the feast tomorrow? I… wouldn’t want to make it awkward.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Kent replied. “Lady Farina might be mere days away from giving birth. He’s expressed his apologies to Lyn many times now – he is reluctant to risk travel, and even more reluctant to leave her side to come by himself.”

“A time for nesting,” Lucius nodded. “Such beauty.”

Florina groaned. “Can we please not talk about my sister? She won’t stop bragging in her letters to me.”

Kent, who was halfway through a gulp of his ale, tensed up as Sain concurred. “Yes, let’s not talk about Florina’s sisters. Either of them. Just for one night’s peace.”

Kent put his ale down, his face scrunching up in profound sadness.

“Oh no.” Sain groaned. “In trying to circumvent my fate, I ensured it.”

“It’s not fair!” Kent suddenly bemoaned. “There was a storm over the plains, so they were unable to fly for a full day! She won’t be here until were after the feast! No dancing, no singing…”

“Is… Is he in love?” Lucius asked, with obvious confusion in his voice. “This isn’t like him.”

“Fiora…” Kent sobbed softly, before seeking to drain the rest of his mug down his gullet.

“Fiora? Our Fiora? The Pegasus knight of Ilia?” Raven asked confusedly. “When did that happen?”

“Right?” Wil shook his head as Sain rose to order another ale for his crimson double. “Apparently they fell in love throughout our travels. You can reliably expect two letters a week from her for Kent.”

“Kent, is this true?” Lucius asked kindly.

Kent sadly nodded. “She and three other delegates were coming to represent Ilia’s royalty at the feast; she was to be my date.”

“I’m very happy for you.” Lucius said this with an air of genuine sympathy, something that the Caelin regulars had obviously grown tired of giving him. “And I’m sure she’ll be riding through the night to get to you now. She’ll be here before the celebration ends, I know it.” The priest poured a glass of water for the knight and passed it across to him dutifully. Kent nodded again and downed the water in one go, hoping to dilute the ale he now regretted finishing so quickly.

It was at this moment that someone – Raven, to be particular – took notice of Florina as she gazed into the minute bubbles rising inside her glass. She was deeply fixated, mind clearly divorced from the goings-on of the bar and conversation, wide cerulean eyes now narrowed in concern.

“And what,” the steely mercenary stated, “is troubling you, Florina? Your elder sister may now be wife to royalty, but you can’t be too destitute down here in Caelin.” He folded his arms as his eyes settled into the art of analysis. “Besides, you never struck me as the type who gets jealous.”

“Ah…” Florina stammered, looking unsure. She couldn’t look Raven quite in his unwelcoming eye at first, but a reassuring nod from Lucius had her continue. “I’m just… worried about Lyn. She’s been working so hard, and…”

Raven shook his head. “I’m sorry. But I don’t buy that.”

The immediate shift in tone caused the whole table to turn.

“I don’t claim to know Lyndis’s stamina as well as you, Florina, but…” Lucius popped a nut into his mouth and gestured to Raven.

“But it’s a load of crap,” Raven cut through. “She’ll be fine and you know it. Your concern is much more personal.”

Lucius finished chewing his snack and swallowed. “Well,” the acolyte said, “I wouldn’t have worded it quite so bluntly. But yes. This is about something a lot more personal than the party. A spiritual matter, perhaps?”

The amethyst girl, now nearly crumpled from embarrassment, started to redden around the cheeks. “N-no.”

Kent, Sain and Wil now watched on, suddenly concerned. “Hold on, Florina,” Kent said responsibly. “You never let us know something was wrong. We’re here for you.” The other two nodded their agreement.

“It’s just… about the guests. About the lords.” Florina mumbled.

“Lord Eliwood?” Wil suggested. Florina shook her head.

“No, not him,” Kent shot back. “Just the general amount of people? Afraid one of the men will try something?”

This time it was Sain who expressed doubts. “You’ve come a long way since then. You could outfight any one of those pasty noblemen anyway!”

For about some seconds talk flurried back and forth between the gathering, with every name being suggested except the one that was important. The fighters of Lyndis’ Legions bantered about in one excruciating assumption after another, with an increasingly wide web of noblemen and women of Lycia entering the equation. All throughout this Raven sat silently, staring at the girl as she zoned out from even the conversation regarding her concerns. He thought. He watched.

“Lyn.” He finally stated simply, voice calm and sharp above the din of competing sounds. “You’re afraid someone’s gonna walk in and sweep Lyn off her feet.”

Florina looked up, gave him a sad look that somehow conveyed absolute truth, then looked away with tears threatening to gather in her eyes.

“I see…” Kent began, considering the idea. “Well, you two have always been close.”

“We… we were never really a pair…” Florina spoke meekly. “She just looked after me...”

“Eh, I always knew, really.” Wil shrugged. “About your feelings. I just never questioned it. Not my place.”

Sain then earned himself a rebuke from Kent by raising his glass and declaring the news a loss for the world of men.

“Love is sacred, sayeth the Saint. As long as that love is sacrosanct to you, nothing else matters,” Lucius’s words were as honey. “At least, not to me.”

When Florina looked to Raven, whose address had cut through the noise, he merely shrugged and offered a flippant reply. “Those in glass houses,” he said.

It was Kent who stood then. “Well, here’s the thing,” he said from his new position. “Lyn has told me time and again that she wasn’t going to announce an intention for suitors, because she wanted to enjoy the night with her old friends.”

“That won’t stop the ones who’re desperate,” Raven replied calmly. “It’s a feast, with a tourney for show and everything. There’ll be suitors.”

“Even so,” Kent said. “Lyn has been essentially acting as Marquess of Caelin for five years now as Lord Hausen’s health waxes and wanes. And in all that time, not once has she made anything more than a token effort to secure her lineage.”

“W-what are you suggesting?” Florina asked, worried with the tone of the conversation.

“I’m suggesting that she doesn’t want a husband, Florina. I’m saying you have a chance.” Kent said.

“But what could I do to even try for her affections? She is… she’s…”

“She’s your best friend already,” Wil suggested. “There are worse positions to start from.”

“No, no, you all don’t get it – she’s… she’s unattainable. Her strength, her smarts... I can’t hope to find a way to match them…”

“You sell yourself short,” Sain began, “But if you really think you can’t, why not leave it to us? How about tomorrow, we try to find a way to get you two together? You and Lyn!”

The suggestion stunned the table for a moment. In the resultant silence, just as Florina opened her mouth to downplay the suggestion, they heard a noise from the next table over – the percussive snap of a book being shut, followed by a loud groan of annoyed consternation.

All six heads at the table turned to the booth to see the cloaked person, robed in emerald, slide out from the cushioned bench and step out into the bar proper, before turning to face their table.

“Somehow, I knew there was a reason I was here this week.” The figure sighed in annoyance synchronised to this thought, and lifted the hood concealing his face – revealing a head of chestnut hair and a familiar face of errant fondness, a sharp visage with keen features and eyes seemingly too old for the young face they belonged to. Knowledge and cynical calm radiated out from within him, and the sight of him sent a lighting strike of joy and wonder through the table’s occupants. It was none other than the tactician who had guided them through their journey four years ago.

“…Mark?” Florina was again the first to gasp the name, and seeing his face fill with fond acknowledgement she leapt from her seat and flew into him, wrapping him a warm embrace. “It’s been so long! I thought… we thought…”

“Yeah,” Mark said. “I know. I know.”

The moment lasted a second or two longer, until Florina gave a final squeeze and let go. The rest of the table had now risen and were gawking at him with varying expressions of surprise and joyous reunion.

“It’s… been a while,” he said, trying to find the words. “The limelight’s not for me, I suppose.”

Kent was the first to step out and offer his hand. “Grandmaster,” Kent said under his breath, offering the old nickname back to him, which caused Mark to let out a red-faced laugh as he reached out in kind and shook Kent’s hand with respectful vigour.

“Cute haircut,” Mark then said to Lucius, who bowed slightly in reverence to his old friend. Raven nodded in greeting. Wil stepped forward and clapped Mark on the shoulder – but Sain, who had appeared fearful at Mark’s appearance, now sheepishly scratched his head and mumbled out a hello.

“Hello to you too, Sain. Keeping out of trouble?”

Sain nodded sheepishly as he absentmindedly clutched his lower jaw, as if wounded. “I should’ve known you’d find your way back to haunt me... Whenever we needed a miracle, you always were able to deliver.”

“You’re damn right,” Mark said. “On both counts.”

“There’s history here that I’m not familiar with,” Raven grumbled as he beheld the rest of the group looking gravely at this exchange.

“Well, you see...” Sain stammered, going uncharacteristically quiet. “It wasn’t too long after we met Lyn and Florina, and I was just…”

“He was being an idiot.” Mark said this calmly. “He was making Florina uncomfortable, so I gave him my best one. Right in the jaw.”

Will nodded sagely. “Made quite the sound.”

“It still throbs before a storm,” Sain groaned, reliving the impact. “Not my finest hour.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Mark said, fondly patting Sain on the shoulder as he quickly circled the man like a shark before continuing. “Now, forgive me for eavesdropping, but I just spent the last fifteen minutes painfully listening to you lot stumble around the greatest meaning of this girl’s” – he pointed to Florina – “waking life. I wasn’t going to speak up until the green-eyed monster over here said exactly what was on my mind. I’m not about to deny a sign like that.”

“Said what?” Wil asked.

“About a plan,” Mark answered, “to get Lyn and Florina together. I’d had the same thought.”

“Not merely a sign, then,” intoned Lucius. “A consecration.”

Mark nodded at the Priest’s assessment, and then turned to the Pegasus Knight. “I don’t want to do anything that upsets you, Florina. I’m not about to put pressure on you. Do you _want_ us helping?”

Florina was silent for some time. “I… I don’t know.”

Mark was calm with his counsel. “What are you afraid of?”

“T-that it might not work.”

The tactician nodded. “How many are we?” He counted the occupants of the conversation. “There’s seven of us, including Raven and Lucius. You two are in on this, right?”

The taller mercenary opened his mouth to object, but the monk gave a sharp tug on his jacket’s sleeve; at which point he instantly quietened with a burdened expression and let Lucius nod his head with vigour.

“See, Florina? Seven of us at your service,” Sain said, regaining his usual swagger. “Do you feel the extra confidence yet?”

“Seven or none, it doesn’t matter,” Kent replied, correctly inferring the facts. “We could number a hundred and success would still be far from a guarantee. Whether or not we do this is Florina’s decision, though I am happy to help.”

“Aye,” Wil added, throwing his proverbial hat into the ring. “We’ve fought no shortage of worthwhile battles, but I’m ready for… whatever it is you’d call this kind of strife!”

“What this is,” Mark started, before correcting himself. “What this could be, is a plan. And for there to be even a slight chance of tomorrow night ending with these two women in love, I need strict adherence to my stratagem. At the garden party, at the tourney, at the feast, even well into the night if need be. I need all of you able to help.”

Mark sounded stern, but all gathered had experience with the strategist’s plans and their vast layers of complexity – and equally vast history of success. One by one, they began to nod.

“Good,” Mark confirmed. “I’ll need that seating plan. I’ll work as late as I have to in order to finish it, and leave it with the barkeep for one of you to give to Lyn in the morning. Wil, Kent, Raven, Lucius. There’ll be more for you two to do tomorrow.”

“And me?” Sain asked proudly, stepping forward.

“Nope,” Mark said sharply, pointing the man back to his seat. “I refuse to trust you with a damn thing. Of importance, anyway.”

Sain gave a pouting expression that was all too practiced to mean anything.

“I have the numbers, I have the resources, I have the plan in motion,” Mark said, turning back to the woman of the hour. “All I need is your go-ahead, Florina.” The tactician had taken Florina’s two hands in his and was offering her a long stare of unwavering determination. “This is your day, your love made manifest. You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met, and I want you to let me – let us – do this for you.”

Florina looked away, blushing and nervous. “Y-you mustn’t know many brave people, then…” she summoned up a stammering self-rebuke.

Mark stepped closer to her, crouching slightly so that he was close to her ear. “The Florina I know is so brave, that she waits every day for a love that may never come without help,” he whispered so that only she could hear. “That takes courage beyond measure. I’ll never let you down. I promise.”

He let the statement loose and listened, waiting for the declination, the refusal of the call that to him now seemed inevitable.

Instead: “Okay.”

He reared back in surprise, to find the Pegasus knight staring at her own balled fist. “You… you’re right, Mark,” she determined. “I… I love her. B-but without a little bit of help, she may never love me back. I don’t want to lose her, but…” she looked up and scanned across her comrades, meeting each of their gazes in turn before settling on her benefactor’s. “…but I want to at least try.”

One at a time, smiles lit like torch fires across the assembled faces as the plan was approved. Mark stared proudly at his charge a moment more before swinging back around to face the others.

“Well?” the strategist demanded. “You heard your commander! Let us honour the fervour this woman has just shown!”

Mark withdrew a fistful of gold pieces from his green robe and swung towards the counter, slamming them down to order a round of drinks, before facing the group once more and commanding, with the devilish grin of challenge making itself known on his face:

“Lyndis’ Legions, to arms!”

\--

Jubilation! Caelin’s castle town was layered in rich seams of white and ivory that flew in banners and flowers from every hardpoint above street level. The royal seals of Caelin and Pherae, today hung intertwined with one another, were visible in some form from every vantage point in the city as people lined the streets and hung from balconies to catch sights of the grand multitude of visitors from across Lycia and wider Elibe. The great throngs flew petals along the road as envoys arrived from Araphen, and Thria, and Tuscana, their convoys of cavalry and carriages trundling down the roads that gleamed with the passing of lustrous alloys. The bright sun of spring, characterised by warm clear days and cool tranquil nights, was just off directly overhead as the great clock of Caelin’s town hall chimed its twelve strikes of midday. The carriages were still filtering in; like any great event, this party was running a little bit behind schedule. It didn’t bother the partygoers or the onlookers all that much though, especially not the disguised tactician who, in the end, had now been responsible for the entire day’s attendance arrangement.

“Who’d’ve thought Caelin could put on a show like this?” Mark muttered under his breath as he watched the procession. He rubbed his eyes again; he’d managed to complete the plan before sunrise and gotten some sleep, but frustratingly just not enough to feel at ease.

He, Lucius and Raven had been well entered into the party, and now watched from a shaded strip of sidewalk along with the other guests unaffiliated with visiting parties – mainly local landowners and wealthy merchants, but Lyn had been sure to invite several of Caelin’s citizenry. Of their three, the latter pair had been easy entrants due to their connection to the now-redeemed house of Cornwall, but Mark had had to be listed down as Florina’s companion for the event – a fact that he hoped Lyn did not bother to double-check. Mark had been worried that Lyn would recognise him at a distance, but masterfully thought of purchasing some truly vintage robes, his favourite green in colour but almost dresslike in length and completed with a pointed burgundy nightcap to hide his telltale brown hair. It was a uniform only the staunchest academics wore, and it made him socially frictionless at a party like this. Eyes glazed over him as if by instinct. Mark couldn’t blame them, though – it was truly hideous.

Raven was looking on as Lyn greeted Marquess Orun of Thria and his trusted retainer, Wagner. The process was the same every time: The visiting Marquess would approach, be announced by Sain, who was the master of ceremonies, and then greet Lord Hausen and Lyn, who were doing away with tradition and standing side by side as Marquess Caelin. In this process, the retainer would offer a gift on behalf of the visiting house and the captain of the delegacy’s travelling guard would kneel before the keepers of Caelin and its active commander and swear to do no harm in their care. After this formality, the delegates would be waved through to the standing lunch taking place in Caelin’s castle gardens, and the soldiers would go to safely stash their weaponry and armour for the stay.

The next lord was then announced, as Sain cried out: “Of House Worde, the noble Prince Melville!”

An unshaven and curiously-browed blonde man with a confident expression strode up to Lyn. He wore yellow and green as per his house colours, but also sported a black overcoat some might have deemed distasteful. He made a great show of introducing his retainer, a former Caelin wetnurse by trade, and also bowed when the captain of his guard stooped to swear on good behaviour.

“Huh.” Raven grunted. “I never thought I’d see that kid here. I didn’t think he ever left Worde.”

“Fill me in?” Mark asked, scanning the man up and down. “I’ve been out-of-country for a while.”

“Marquess Worde is dying. Weeks to live, at most.” Raven sighed. “His twin sons, Ranward and Melville, have equal claim to the throne, but Ranward is more accomplished diplomatically, and more popular by far. No points for suggesting why the other is here.”

Mark grunted with disapproval as he watched the man take entirely too long to leave Lyn’s presence and enter the gardens.

“I would have loved to see Priscilla here,” Lucius sighed, changing the subject. “I have no doubt she gets her fill of celebration, but Lycian parties are something.”

“She was invited,” Mark informed them. “I saw it on the delegates list attached to the seating plan; She and her fiancé had a room set aside and everything, but they thought it would be a bad look to take off after calling in so many favours to make the wedding happen.”

Lucius nodded approvingly. “They thought well; Etrurian nobility is procedural in the extreme. For she and Erk to go gallivanting off to Lycia even before their wedding would’ve been seen as foolish, even disrespectful.”

Mark chuckled. “Erk, huh?” He turned to Raven. “You approve?”

Raven delayed for effect, but nodded.

Now it was Lucius’ turn to laugh. “I was near them when he proposed. Poor Serra, she cried so loud that night that no-one would bunk with her for a week.”

Mark shook his head, failing to suppress an exasperated sigh at the mere memory of the cleric. “Good. I… I can’t even invent someone who’d want to marry her.”

Suddenly, a bugle announced a heralding cry, the sound travelling far down the road and announcing the imminent arrival of the guests of honour. The thousands around them murmured and whispered at the sound, anticipation gripping the crowd as all eyes turned to the gate at which the masses would catch their first glimpse of the Pheraen host.

“Here we go…” Mark muttered under his breath.

Prolonged minutes passed in this anticipation, as the crowd waited in strained silence. Eventually, mutterings of confusion and displeasure rose up from the throngs as all progress seemed to halt.

“What, did they hit a snag?” Raven mused.

Mark groaned. “No,” the tactician lamented. “The Saint help us, he’s gonna give them a show.”

And then, as if on cue, a single rider burst through Castle Caelin’s great gate, a blur of white that brought forth the delighted cheering of a thousand or more civilians. Atop his white war-horse rode the magnificent and noble frame of Lord Eliwood, his armoured robing of white, silver and gold gleaming in the radiant sunlight as his stallion pelted down the road. His crimson head of hair seemed to blaze and gleam in the collected glory of the day, and in his hand – it was unmistakable – he carried the enormous blade wrought of black and silver, the impossible edge, the magnificence of Roland.

Durandal.

Against his better judgement, Mark found himself transfixed as Eliwood’s gallop took him immediately before Lyn and Lord Hausen, at which point he halted the horse in a practiced movement and gave the beauteous specimen the right moment to rear up onto its hind legs. The noble beast, knowing its timing to perfection, produced a perfect example of a whinny – a declarative clarion-call that shook the air with its strength. Eliwood rose his legendary sword and held it high, letting its superb form catch the light of the sun and reflect brilliantly upon those gathered.

Sain, whose sense of dramatic timing was tuned to perfection, took the moment.

“HAIL, ELIWOOD OF PHERAE!” He bellowed at the top of his lungs. “HAIL THE MARQUESS!”

The cry was echoed across the area, and applause followed immediately as Eliwood did his duty as the poster boy of the Lycian League, holding Durandal high and allowing all sides of the great throng to see it. Finally, appearing from behind the lord came the remaining host of Pherae, slow by comparison, with three captains on horseback riding up behind the Marquess’ considerable lead. The one at formation’s centre was none other than Pherae’s veteran commander, Marcus, who hastily got off his horse and hurried his way up to Lyn and Hausen.

“My lords,” he panted, drawing his sword with such finesse that it was soundless, and kneeling with it before him. “Introducing the Marquess of Pherae, Lord Eliwood, son of Elbert…” the soldier in bronze considered leaving it, but couldn’t hold his tongue. “Please forgive his… display. He has much to learn of decorum.”

Lord Hausen stepped forward and placed an aged hand on the knight’s shoulder. “Nonsense, sir knight; Let us give in to impulse when young.”

Marcus nodded, and rose, producing a customary gift from House Pherae; it was clearly meant for Lyn, as most of the gifts thus far had been – Hausen, after all, was widely regarded as man who had all he desired. He handed her a long object wrapped in preservative white cloth delicately textured with patterns of ranunculus, Pherae’s house flower.

“Thank you, Marcus. It’s good to see you again.” Lyn took the obvious sword and set it aside, before turning attention to the other knight who had found her way to the front.

Dame Isadora, who always was resplendent in her silver raiment of battle, stood before the joint lords of Caelin and drew her own blade for the pledge. “Noble lords of Caelin, Hausen and Lyndis, as commander of the Pherae Expeditionary Force…”

As this affirmation took place, Raven had been busy nudging Lucius back to attention. At the sight of holy Durandal the acolyte had bowed his head in prayer and only allowed himself to lift it when Eliwood had retrieved a superb scabbard, lined with jewels and reinforced with steel, from his horse’s stirrups and sheathed the massive thing. The visiting Marquess now set the blade delicately aside with the third knight in the captaincy, whose sole job seemed to be watching after the weapon.

“Poor Lowen,” Mark mused, watching the familiar, typically dishevelled cavalier take the sizable relic and carry it ceremonially with hands out, attempting not to show his obvious struggle with the weight of the thing. In his time, Eliwood had amazed many an audience of ordinary viewers, by first showcasing the extraordinary weight that the sword possessed in the hands of those not fit to wield it – and then demonstrating his ability to effortlessly flourish it.

Eliwood had now turned to the oblong and curtained carriage that had, slowly but surely, trundled its way through the path behind the leading party; it was rich in royal blues and clearly quite roomy, undeniably the transport of choice for the Marquess and his family. As it slowly rolled to a stop the lordling moved to its side and swung the door outwards, proceeding up the first step and dutifully extending a firm supporting arm to its lone occupant.

A gasp escaped the collective crowd as the Lady Ninian emerged, wearing a wide and flowing dress in hypnotic celeste blue. A wispy white cape trailed behind her, suspended from a collar of sturgeon leather and tasteful gold trim that hung about her bare shoulders. Her cerulean hair, styled in wavy locks, fell about her gentle features, smiling eternally upon the world in which she had been given another chance to live.

Most flattering of all, however, was the heavy pregnancy she was clearly beset by. Her movements – typical of a dancer – remained graceful despite this difference, however she delicately took Eliwood’s hand just as much for balance as for ceremony. Clearly too used to sitting, she took the carriage steps slowly, with Eliwood’s entire form braced to catch her if she fell.

“And the regent mother of Pherae,” Sain announced happily. “The Lady Ninian!”

Mark turned to Lucius, eager to see his smile, but there was only a gap where the monk had once been. Raven now noticed this too and pivoted rapidly to find him – only to find that Lucius had dropped to his knees at the sight of the woman. The chittering socialites behind them had regarded this curiously, as one of the many oddities of a man of the cloth.

“Up you get,” Raven chided patiently. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Lucius kept his knees planted to the ground stubbornly, whispering fervent prayers to the Saint. Only when he had finished his invocation did he stand and, wiping his eyes of joyous tears, resumed his quiet witnessing. Mark dug into his pockets and handed the effeminate monk a cloth handkerchief with which to dry his eyes.

“Jeez…” Raven hissed, “You’d think he’d never seen her before.”

“It’s quite the opposite,” Lucius confessed through reddened cheeks. “It is precisely because I’ve seen her that I show reverence. She is… she is evidence of the Saint’s work in our world.”

Mark began to grasp the meaning. “Of course… seeing Bramimond bring her back to life in our world… for a follower of Elimine, that must’ve been something.”

At that moment, an attendant host of the party appeared in the midst of their waiting group and began to usher the guests through to the gardens for the standing lunch. Mark began to move through, gesturing for the others to follow – but Raven struggled to move Lucius, who was still transfixed watching the dragon girl.

Eliwood wrapped his arm in Ninian’s and started them down the path from the carriage towards Lyn and Lord Hausen, as the crowds watched the gorgeous couple make their way towards the castle. As Marcus and Isadora separated to let them through, Ninian saw Lyn and broke away from Eliwood with a happy laugh, darting towards noblewoman with vigour beyond her form. Eliwood chuckled and let her go with the briefest look of concern for her balance, but then trusted her to it and stepped up to greet the elderly Marquess Caelin.

“Lyn!” Ninian chimed, taking Lyn’s hands in her own and pressing her forehead to the other girl’s. “It’s so good to see you again!” Her eyes were closed, radiating peace as she greeted the plainswoman.

“Lord Hausen,” Eliwood spoke, his tone all hero, his back straight and his arm fixed firmly forward. “Thank you for this great honour and charity, this celebration of the fourth anniversary of my ascension ceremony.”

Hausen shuffled forward and instead took the lordling in his arms, surprising the boy. “Enough of that, young man.” Hausen’s tone was warm, almost paternal. “Elbert would never let me rest, in this world or the next, if he caught me settling for a handshake with his son.”

Surprised, Eliwood let loose a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and sank into the warm old man’s embrace for a few moments before they separated. He then straightened back up. “My mother, the lady Eleanora, sends her fondest wishes,” he said with stately cadence. “She says she is loath to miss a festival, but was with a contagion when we left.”

The grandfather nodded sagely, fond memories of the absent woman obviously racing through his mind. “Tell her that next time, there’ll be no taking no for an answer,” he then turned to Ninian. “And what of you, my treasure? How far along are you?”

Ninian curtsied as best she could with her compromised centre of gravity. “Nearly eight months, your grace. Nothing but healthy development thus far.” Her response was filled to the brim with pride and anticipation of good things to come.

“You must be the strongest woman I’ve ever seen,” Hausen mused. “The seventh month is all about nesting, and yet here you are several days’ travel from home. Have you a name for the little one yet?”

“Why, yes,” Ninian’s radiant smile returned. “His name is Roy.”

“And if he’s a she?” Hausen inquired.

Ninian, deciding it would be better to avoid explaining her unique perception of quintessence to the man, humoured him instead. “Why, we were so sure it was to be Roy, weren’t we darling?”

Eliwood, Lyn noticed, was clearly used to this. “Of course. We should probably have a girl’s name also, just in case.”

The cerulean dancer then turned back to face Hausen. “Did you have a name in mind, your grace?”

“I did,” he stated, old emotion beginning to make itself known across his wrinkles and creases. “If you bear a daughter, I humbly request you consider the name Madelyn.”

“Grandfather…” Lyn shared the man’s sorrow as he remembered his lost daughter – and Lyn’s lost mother. The visiting marriage, also, bowed their heads empathetically in remembrance of the departed woman they had never known – but come to love through the actions of her daughter, here before them now.

“I promise!” Ninian seemed to glide forward on unseen wings, and took the old man’s leathery hands in her own. “I swear, if my baby is a girl – Madelyn she shall be.” The solemnity of her tone indicated complete sincerity.

“Ah,” the Marquess of Caelin sighed, “you are too kind, young one. I am wrong to ask it of you. But… thank you. You’ve made an old man very happy – the future of Pherae, and Lycia as a whole, looks brighter under your rule. The Saint bless you and your child, my treasure,” he turned, from Ninian to Eliwood. “And you, young man… Elbert was a dear friend of mine. I hope we will be, too. Elimine bless you, Marquess Pherae.”

Eliwood swelled with pride and bowed in response, however he hadn’t yet completed the motion before he was surprised by a sharp smack on the back as he faced the ground. The entire crowd turned to roaring laughter as Eliwood shot back up to find Lyn, cackling as she shook her hand off from the sharp impact. Eliwood blushed red, but found the good humour to chuckle also.

“Come here, you!” Lyn greeted her red-headed friend with a face full of laughter and a hug so tight it emptied Eliwood’s lungs of air, something already half-done by the layers of royal robing that weighed upon his shoulders.

“Lyn!” Eliwood wheezed happily between breaths as Ninian chuckled. “It’s been too long!”

“Get in there,” Lyn said to him, gesturing towards the garden party as they released each other from the iron grip. “I’ll be right in.”

The visitor regarded her fondly again, and then looked around in appreciation of the magnificent pageantry laid out for his visit. He sighed happily, a contented thing, and turned to his wife. “Shall we, Lady Ninian?”

She took his hand, giggling at the novelty. “After you, Lord Eliwood!”

The pair moved inside, followed closely by Marcus and Isadora, as Sir Lowen directed the Pherean guard towards the barracks. Lyn and Lord Hausen watched the couple move, the pregnant woman already marvelling at the scope of the gardens and the dutiful husband taking care to make sure they treaded level ground.

“Ahhhh,” Hausen exhaled happily. “Elbert’s son turned out fine after all. I was worried, after hearing news of the man’s death.”

“Yes,” Lyn said wistfully, “we have a lot to thank Ninian for.”

The old man let out a throaty chuckle, a guilty thing full of phlegm. “Pity he didn’t see you first, eh? Now there would’ve been a fine great-grandchild.”

“Grandfather!” Lyn playfully scolded him. “Maybe in another life. Besides. I invited him here to celebrate his happiness – and I’m sure I couldn’t make him happier than she already does.”

“I think you would’ve made him very happy, and him you,” the elder said, before taking the arm that his granddaughter offered him. “But I’m biased. Come, give a wave and let’s go in ourselves.”

\--

Inside the late luncheon party, a high-minded and dainty thing that had wasted an hour of the early afternoon, Florina had escaped the socialite scene and was reclining on a knee-high rock wall that marked off the enclosure of one exotic plant or another. She was chewing on a sweet pastry absent-mindedly, trying her best to keep her mind off the task looming ahead when Mark saw fit to arrive, his own petite plate piled high with sweets. He risked the attention of sitting next to her for a minute.

“You ready?” He asked her. “Kent’s getting Isadora fired up now.”

Across the garden, the two splendid knights were breathing silent threats to each other about the upcoming bout through gritted teeth. True to custom, a tourney awaited the afternoon’s proceedings, complete with an exhibition match between the hosting and visiting lords – with their most trusted champions by their side. Kent and Isadora, for their part, had somehow been matched together across three separate tourneys, and now their pitched rivalry was a source of much contention around Lycia. Indeed, due to overwhelming demand Lyn had been pressured to allow bookmakers into the arena to best direct the inevitable flow of gambling money. Regulation, it had been decided, was the only way to prevent controversy.

“You just remember; no-one remembers who came second.” Isadora seethed.

“When I’m done with you, you’re gonna be in the reserves for a month.” Kent hissed.

“Oh, see, Harken would love that, so I can’t let it happen – Lucius!” Isadora broke the trading of threats to welcome the monk and Raven to the conversation as they approached. “And Lord Raymond – good to see you both. When was it last, the master’s wedding?”

“I think so!” Lucius replied eagerly. “I only lament that I couldn’t make it to yours. How is your husband?”

“Harken? Wishing he were here,” Isadora replied smartly. “Someone had to stay behind in Pherae, and he drew the short stick.”

“Hey now!” No-one had noticed Eliwood coming up behind them until his sharp voice interjected into their conversation. “What’s this about our heroic master of infantry?” he shook hands with Raven and bowed slightly to Lucius, clearly delighted to see them, and settling in for something of a catch-up.

Back at the delicate wall of rocks near which Florina waited with Mark, the delicate knight finally seemed to summon some fervour. “I can do it!” she told herself, eyes fixated on Isadora. “I’ve seen her fight… I can beat her! At least, I think I can…”

“That’s my girl,” Mark whispered under his breath, before catching Sain’s eye and giving him an angled expression that said _can we hurry this up?_.

Sain, having just finished a scone layered with sickly sweet fruit preserves, pivoted to look at the great clock tower that rose over the town hall, visible from the gardens, and saw that there was only fifteen minutes left until the duel was scheduled to begin. He sent back an ambiguous shrug, and set about marshalling the waiting staff to start moving the guests down to the dusty arena.

Taking sight of this next signal, Wil now emerged from his hawk’s nest overlooking the gardens to meet Kent in the kitchens as the crimson knight excused himself from the conversation with their old commander. Wil was an optimistic man by nature, and a social one – he had plenty of time for the feast and party to come, but had no desire to engage in the dainty proceedings of a tea party and as such had volunteered to be the liaison between staff on the floor and those back of house. Now, however, Wil had another duty – he had at his side a bucket of viscous fluid, a thick white mix of milled powder and water that was already solidifying into plaster. When Kent moved into the kitchen’s spare room, swallowing his pride for the scheme, the cavalier immediately stripped his right wrist of its crimson armoured gauntlet and pulled the shirt all the way back to his elbow.

“Make it quick,” he grunted.

In the gardens, Lyn thanked the signalman who had delivered to her a most welcome report. Blue and white smoke signals had been seen from the forts of their northern allies, communication that a friendly force – the Ilian delegation of Pegasus knights bound for this party – had been seen clearing the mountains near Tuscana and would be, the wind permitting, at Castle Caelin by nightfall.

“Lady Lyndis!” called out a sly voice. At this, Lyn dismissed the soldier and turned to face the new voice, finding now the face of Lord Melville of Worde. “You must forgive me for my intrusion. I came to wish you luck in the arena, my lady.”

“Thank you, milord, but luck has never been something I’ve needed in battle.” She replied, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, but I’d be terrified, were I you!” He continued, following her as she began to make her way through the gardens back towards her comrades. “In Worde, at least, Lord Eliwood’s fighting has become a thing of legend! Why, they say he is stronger than even Hector of Ostia!”

Lyn, sipping her tea at that moment, just about nearly spat her drink in the suppression of laughter.

“Are… are you alright, my lady? I should get a cleric!”

The noblewoman recovered herself. “That’s fine, Lord Melville,” she panted. “Just, as someone who fought alongside Eliwood and Hector both, that is an… interesting statement to make.”

“I make it only to compliment you, dear lady!” he seized in conversationally. “To fight such a fearsome foe, you must have bravery to nearly match your beauty!”

“Oh, is that what they say of me in Worde?” She shot back.

“W-what some say, my lady!” he stammered. “Fools, all – they insist a girl such as yourself could never defeat a general like Lundgren, that some foul play was involved, but I always argue in your favour. And you’ll no doubt be happy to know that today, no matter how grave the odds, I shall bet in your favour against Lord Eliwood.”

“You’re too kind.”

The thread hung in the air awkwardly, as though Melville had been expecting more to the reply. As if the moment had created a beacon in the air that begged for interruption, Sain flocked to Lyn at the most ideal second and whispered in her ear. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Melville,” Lyn was able to dismiss herself, moving to follow the verdant knight as he led the way towards the centre of the gardens.

“Yes! We will talk again later.” The would-be Marquess shouted out after her. Lyn tried to push the man from her mind as she walked.

Sain had now taken his place the centre of the gardens, a position marked by an avid gaggle of tall-hatted bookmakers accepting gold and bills from the ring of gambling partygoers excited for the start of the duel. There were a few metres of clearing in which Sain gallivanted around, entertaining onlookers and guests of honour with jokes and anecdotes surrounding their travels. Eliwood and Marcus in particular were laughing at his story, one they had been witness to: of Sir Kent and Dame Fiora, falling in love over their mutual disdain for the poor discipline of their motley crew of soldiers. Lyn reached this circle, and on her side of its radius found only a girl she hadn’t expected but was delighted to see – Florina was present, her long white dress fluttering softly as she waited.

“Florina!” Lyn smiled as she approached. “Why are you here? Where’s Kent?”

“I’m afraid,” Sain started, approaching the matter delicately, “that it was Florina here who just informed me of a slight hitch.” He raised his voice for the next announcement, as it concerned the stakes of the fight at large. “There has been an accident in the kitchens!” he proclaimed, and an excited murmur erupted through the crowd. “Two workers were moving a cauldron from storage to the kitchen to prepare tonight’s entrée, they lost their balance and accidentally navigated the pot into Kent, who was dutifully checking on the kitchens! The wrist of his sword arm was caught between the wall and the object, and he has been hurt!”

The shocked gasps travelled through the gathering, with many men already turning to the bookmakers to claim refunds. “I must see him!” Lyn commanded. “We should cancel the tourney!”

“That will not be necessary…” a familiar voice called from outside the circle. The crowd parted to let in Kent himself, whose arm had been wrapped in a still-drying cast and suspended at an angle by a sling around his neck. Wil supported him, carrying the scarlet knight’s sword and shield over his back.

“Kent! Are you okay?” Lyn dashed to his side, gingerly taking the injured appendage in her fingers.

“It’s nothing,” he grunted. “The cleric estimates it could be as light as a sprain, but took precautions for a fracture,” he took the time to grunt in pain convincingly. “Either way I’m not fighting today. But, my lady, it would be a pity to cancel the duel.”

Lyn thought for a moment, before remembering her station and turning to face Eliwood. “I am-”

“No apologies needed,” He sensed her statement before it was finished. “Take your time.”

She nodded thankfully, and turned back to Kent. “Any recommendations on a new partner?”

“Anyone but Sain,” he breathed back. “His style and yours don’t work well in tandem, plus he’s the only referee here the bookies can agree on to be unbiased. Whoever you pick, it has to be someone you trust with your flank.”

Throughout this whispered exchange, Eliwood, who had been carrying out a hushed team meeting of his own with Isadora and Marcus, then turned to Lucius and Raven and brought them into the conversation. When Lyn turned back to address the crowd, the red-haired lord watched at attention. Lyn made her last considerations, mulling over her options for a battling partner. Then, she drew the mighty Mani Katti at her side, its curvature of metal singing as it left its scabbard, was held high, and then thrust into the grass at her feet.

“I will fight!” She declared dramatically.

Applause came forth from the crowd, the gamblers especially eager to see their transaction going ahead. Eliwood then swaggered forth, appealing to the crowd as he talked.

“Interesting! What a turn of events,” he inspired a wave of approving nods and murmurs from the captivated audience. “Gathered lords and ladies, I hope very much to see many more interesting tourneys like this in my time. To have a handpicked substitution like this… very interesting, don’t we agree?”

Mark, who was watching from the outer circles, hoped desperately that Eliwood wasn’t doing what he’d begun to suspect from the man. “Oh no, don’t do it, you bastard…” he grimaced.

“I think we’ll all agree that turnabout is fair play!” Eliwood suggested to a chorus of approval. “So let’s make this fight interesting – I hereby suspend Dame Isadora as my combat partner for this duel!”

A roar of shouts followed this suggestion, both in approval and protest – plainly highlighting who had bet on Pherae and who on Caelin. The colour had drained from Florina’s face as the confidence she’d built began to dissolve away, like a structure of sand in the waves.

“But do not fear, betting men of Caelin!” Eliwood worked the crowd. “I will give you an interesting wager indeed. For my partner in battle today will not be Sir Marcus!” the crowds roared again as he confirmed this, before the visitor quietened them down with his hands. “No, no, his extraordinary combat record aside, our dear Marcus is not the many I have my eye on today.” The crowd followed his voice in mystified awe – even Marcus watched on, the knight taking the dismissal in good humour.

“No,” Eliwood said, preparing for the killing blow. “You see, good fortune today has blessed my visit with the presence of some of those who fought alongside me in years past. It is good to reunite with these old comrades, swap stories, and discuss battles behind us and futures ahead of us.”

“Oh no,” Mark muttered expletives. “You son of a-”

“Such a man is among us, a man renowned for his value to any battle-group in Elibe!” Eliwood turned and pointed to his intended man. “I nominate, as my battle partner, the sublime mercenary, Raymond of House Cornwall!”

Raven, with a nod of acknowledgement, stepped forward to accept the offer at Lucius’ insistence, and the bookies began to furiously renegotiate odds – the new participant was perhaps a better swordsman than Kent, but his uncouth style of ugly mercenary training would perhaps put him at a disadvantage among more disciplined opponents.

It was only a few more seconds before Lyn stepped forward, resoluteness evident on her face. “Very well!” She shouted for all to hear. “But don’t let your bravado falter when you hear of my champion! For among all, there is no-one I dare you more to overcome. Shatter your swords in vain-”

There was quick yelp of surprise from the amethystine girl as Lyn turned and grabbed Florina’s hand, thrusting it high into the air with her own.

“For I choose as my partner, Florina of the Pegasus knights of Ilia!” Lyn bellowed, and Florina stared at her in bafflement, as though she had not actually been expecting the nomination.

The crowd was caught for a moment in stunned silence – and then everyone erupted into shouting.

\--

The pointed tip of the jousting stick obliterated the waiting shield, the high-speed javelin shattering the thing into a mess of splinters and planks and unseating its owner off their horse.

“OH!” Sain roared, “And Marcus scores another notch! It looks like yet another year of Pheraen cavalry dominance, folks!” The disappointed clamour of Caelin’s punters rang out, giving Sain an opportunity for a moment of levity. “Don’t we think he should be slowing down on the tourneys these days? I think I’ve noticed more silver in his hair than his sword as of late!”

Solid laughter followed this roasting. Marcus flipped up the lid of his sallet, the metallic hinge clicking as it shifted to reveal the greying knight’s face. His horse trotted around the fallen form of the other man, allowing the veteran to examine the damage. His Caelin opponent was groaning in the gravel, and Marcus graciously climbed down from his horse and extended a hand to the man, to quite some appreciation from the stands.

“After Lowen and Isadora’s equally impressive heats, that makes straight sets for Pherae!” Sain summarised, much to the chagrin of the home crowd. “But, in the absence of Dame Rebecca, Pherae’s archers were not enough to outshoot Sir Wil of Caelin!” the brunet archer in question, his heats completed, gave a fond salute to the crowd as they cheered at his mention.

“Truly, this is once-in-a-lifetime, lovely ladies and gentlemen!” The green knight yelled, doing his best to hype the crowd up. “Not only will the champions’ bout contain some truly wildcard entries, but it will decide the tournament!”

\--

Inside the stuffy armoury that bordered the stadium, Eliwood and Lucius conversed as the visiting Marquess prepared for his bout alongside his battle partner, Raven. The deft-handed monk was fastening a leather breastplate to the mercenary, fastening the strap in notches above his beige longcoat.

“There?”

“A little tighter.”

Lucius adjusted appropriately. “How about now?”

“That’s perfect.” Raven stood and retrieved a pair of pauldrons from the wall that roughly matched his size.

“But as I was saying,” Eliwood continued on a hanging thread of conversation, as he himself was strapping on a pair of shin guards, “with the seal on the Eight Generals’ weapons undone, and no living members remaining, it’s Mage General Pent that’s trying to keep tabs on where the Divine Weapons are and whether they’re safe. Unfortunately, we know nothing about where Murgleis, Maltet, or the Apocalypse tome are, though we suspect that last one is at the Shrine of Seals.”

“So, of the ones we used…” Lucius thought out loud. “I was there when Holy Elimine’s Aureola tome was returned safely to the Etrurian Church. I helped place the seal.”

Eliwood nodded. “Pent then returned Athos’ Forblaze tome to the Water Temple in Arcadia. He and Louise undertook that alone…”

The monk empathised. “The loss of the Archsage was a loss for all of us, but them most of all.”

The lord slipped strong leather gloves onto his hands and flexed them as he concurred. “As for Eckesachs, as the sword of Bern’s royal family, it’s out of our reach. So that just leaves...”

“Armads.” Lucius finished. “Does Hector still wield it?”

Eliwood shook his head before chuckling. “You should have seen him weep as he relinquished it. It took both Farina and I to console him.”

Lucius giggled softly at the image just as Raven finished buckling on the shoulderpads, and there was a laboured knock at the door. “Lord Eliwood?” came a young man’s voice from the other side. “It’s me!”

“Ah, Lowen!” The lord in question replied. “Come on in!”

The comedic-looking man with his messy head of aquamarine hair and awkward posture stumbled inside clumsily, his movement hastened due to the massive weight he carried – the mighty Durandal was bundled in his arms. “Here, milord,” he panted, clearly having carried the massive blade a fair way.

“Thank you, my friend,” Eliwood said, reaching up and taking the sword by its handle – effortlessly lifting the thing by one hand from Lowen’s arms and righting it in his grip, the thick blade passing through space with a strange metallic click as it seemed to part the very air. The man handled the blade with a strange aura of satisfaction, pride – and resentment, its shape reminding him of a dark moment in a troubled past.

Raven took his eyes off the sword for a moment to find his companion and again found him staring with complete reverence at the blade, the relic forged by Roland.

“Lord Eliwood,” Lucius breathed, “If I may be so impudent…”

The lord chuckled and swung the sword around so that his grip was reversed, before offering it, handle first, to the priest. “I anticipated you might want to. Just don’t-”

Lucius’ fingers closed around the weapon – and instantly it became many times more heavy, the holy man’s knees buckling as it took every inch of his strength to prevent the blade from hitting the floor and breaking its tiling. Raven immediately ran to his side, clasping his own hands around the monk’s and helping Lucius lower the weighty steel to the ground below with slow delicateness, turning it so that the flat of the sword rested safely against the earth.

“-hurt yourself.” Eliwood finished as they completed the action.

“I don’t understand,” Lucius panted in panicked confusion, shooting back up straight. “I wielded the Aureola… have I wronged the Saint somehow? I should be able to…”

“Lucius,” Eliwood interrupted him. “Not all of these weapons were wielded by a Saint. The Eight Generals, heroes though they were, were also great killers – and those wielding their tools, also, must subscribe to great violence. I don’t claim to be an interpreter for Durandal,” he said, referring to the sword as he lifted it off the ground almost easier than he would a normal sword. “But I think it is discouraging you, rather than rejecting you, from using it. You are too gentle for its like.”

“But… but, the Archsage!” Lucius argued back. “Also a great and gentle soul, a wizard, a kind man, and he could effortlessly carry the blade!”

“He was also a master of flame, the element shared by Durandal, and friend to the sword’s original wielder,” Eliwood replied firmly. “We are not afforded the same luxuries.”

Lucius looked downcast. Raven stepped beside him and, after an awkward moment in which the mercenary glanced suspiciously at Eliwood, took the monk’s hand comfortingly. Lucius settled into the touch, closing his fingers around the larger man’s.

“My friend,” Eliwood said undeterred, placing his hand on Lucius’ shoulder. “I see a lot of the Archsage in you. A lot of faith in humanity, and the superb skill to accompany it.”

“While flattered, my lord…” Lucius responded, “I have not his skills in magic, nor his centuries of life to equal them.”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Eliwood said. “There’s a reason Mark had you wield the Aureola in the final battle instead of the Archsage.” The memory made Lucius’s ever-present smile return at last. “Besides, if I were to describe Athos, I could say ‘wizard’, but perhaps more, I’d say ‘wanderer’. A kindly heart, a helping hand, travelling the world, meeting its commonfolk, reading its histories, healing its wounded. And that fits you, good monk, like glove fits hand. It makes many other, supposedly senior magicians immediately your junior.”

By now Lucius looked gratefully at Eliwood as he summarised. “Not being able to lift Durandal is not an indictment of you, Lucius,” he paused, “it’s an indictment of those who can.”

“Ah, hells.” Raven swore before the two other men had too much of a chance to get caught up in the meanings of battles past. “I’ve gone and forgot to smooth out the nicks in my sword.” He checked his blade in its sheath, seeing the minute chipped notches that lined its edge.

“Do you want one from Lyn’s armoury?” Eliwood asked. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“Thanks, but nah.” Raven dismissed, drawing his sword and examining it over. “This one’s balance is too perfect. I’ll go sharpen it quickly, buff it out. You two,” he grinned, “keep talking.”

The silence that followed the auburn man’s departure allowed Eliwood and Lucius to catch the sound of the roaring crowd as it filtered in through the walls. There was the crunch of a rider being unseated, and the resultant cheering and jeering of the energised audience.

“He’s come a long way, hasn’t he?” Eliwood dared to ask.

“Yes, he has. Raven no more. He’s my Raymond again.”

Eliwood turned to the acolyte. “You know, Lucius, I’ve loved catching up with both of you so far. You and your partner are welcome at Castle Pherae anytime.”

Lucius flushed red. “T-thank you, my lord. It’s an honour.”

Eliwood laughed, his face then settling on a sort of optimistic seriousness. “Now, that’s not all. I want to invite you to help us seal the Durandal.”

“Milord? You’ll be… sealing it again?”

The man nodded, acceptance on his features. “Pent, Hector and I agreed it would be the last to be sealed, due to Pherae being closest to Bern and the first line of defence against any attack. Additionally, whether Ninian and I like it or not, the blade is an… essential piece of our shared history.” The man touched his own chest briefly before continuing. “But now that Bern’s internal politics seem to have settled in favour of good prince Zephiel, both Hector and Pent think it’s time we put the blazing sword back to rest.”

Lucius smiled understandingly, sensing hesitation in the man. “Do you disagree?”

He shrugged. “A little,” he replied flippantly. “I imagine it was the same for Hector. These weapons give us the power to protect everyone we love. But they are too powerful to remain free in the world.”

“And the lady Ninian?” Lucius’ voice seemed to shudder with awe as he spoke her name. “What does she think?”

“We agreed together,” Eliwood replied enigmatically. “Durandal is inextricably linked to us. It is the representation of all our sorrows, joys, pains, and miracles.” He smiled sadly. “But our baby is coming. Our Roy – our future! Is nearly here. And after I’ve used this object of our past to anoint the child of our future, we intend to seal it – and let history remain just that.”

Lucius was dumbfounded. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he sighed. “It is an incredible honour to be asked, twice in one lifetime, to see these wonders returned.”

“Then you know what to say,” came Raven’s voice from behind them. He had been leaning in the doorway, listening with his hastily, but freshly-sharpened sword in its sheath. “Say yes. We’ll conclude our business in Thria and then circle back around to Pherae in time for the anointing.”

“You mean it?” Lucius was ebullient.

“Of course I do. It makes you happy, after all.”

Eliwood watched the scene with fondness, but the distinct feeling of being watched. He wheeled around and could’ve sworn he glimpsed a shadow retreating from outside the door, but paid it no mind, and shook the feeling off. “Lord Raymond,” he said, getting the auburn man’s attention. “It’s nearly time. Let’s get going.”

Raven nodded firmly, battle-hardened seriousness taking over.

“Be careful out there,” Lucius said, handing the man his rough leather head guard. The two squeezed each other’s hand before Raven fell in behind the Pheraen noble.

“Thanks for doing this,” Eliwood said to the mercenary. “Variety is the spice of life, after all.”

“It’s fine,” Raven said, securing the guard on his head and patting the cheeks to make sure it was secure and doing its job. “Just don’t slow me down.”

Eliwood scoffed. “Trust me,” he said, slight fear entering his voice. “Compared to her? We’re all slow.”

\--

Mark panted in bald-faced relief. Eliwood had just come far, far too close to seeing him for the tactician’s comfort. He turned and dared another look – just seeing Lucius, he gestured to the monk as subtly as he could, and soon enough the monk ran out to meet him in the hallway.

“They all done?” Mark asked. Lucius nodded. “Good,” he said, “come help me with this.”

Behind Mark was a stark wooden crate, easily the size of a grown man, which he had loaded onto a wheeled axel and now leaned against his back, huffing and puffing with effort as he guided the thing through to the armoury’s other room.

“What is this?” Lucius dared to question as he followed it behind, keeping it straight with his hands and helping push.

“It’s for Florina,” Mark grunted. “You’ll see. But first, you and that Raven have some explaining to do.”

“About the tourney?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He promised me that he was doing it out of respect for your plan, Mark.”

“And he couldn’t have been lying? He and I never really got along in the past.”

“He doesn’t lie to me,” Lucius said firmly, settling that matter.

“So, is he gonna throw the fight, or what?” the strategist groaned through the effort, clearly annoyed.

“No, he’s got too much pride for that,” Lucius said. “He’ll fight it seriously. Says that if Lyn and Florina fight well together, they’ll win.”

“And how does he figure that?” Mark snarled. “Raven’s a better swordsman than Isadora or Marcus.”

Lucius smiled enigmatically. “Yes, but he and Eliwood haven’t fought together in years, and even then they never developed tactics to use as a pair.”

“You have a lot of faith, Lucius,” Mark exhaled as the crate was finally wheeled into the other readying room. “Maybe too much.”

“Maybe you, too little.” Lucius snapped back as the tactician dusted himself off.

“Mark? Is that you?” Florina’s head peeked around from the side. The man gave a muted greeting as he took a steel lance from the wall, jammed the blade into the closed-up seam on the side of the crate, and pushed – applying leverage at great effort until, with a satisfying _crack_ , the front of the thing swung open and its heavy wooden plate fell down onto the floor with a dull thud for emphasis.

“Oh my,” Florina gasped as she beheld the crate’s contents. “Really? M-me?”

Mark nodded proudly. “Yep. About three years back, had a bigshot mercenary based in Caelin hire me to plan for some arena spectacular. Part of it involved this – I’m just glad the smith held on to it. Paid him triple to get it refitted and have the repaint done and dry by morning.”

“Are… are you sure?” Florina’s voice wavered.

“Of course I am,” Mark assured her. “It’s all in the plan. Now, get moving. We’ll be watching you from the stands.”

“Oh… okay!” Florina gulped down her nervousness as she shot a dreadful stare at the thing in the crate.

\--

“Hey, Florina, are just about ready- woah.” Lyn entered the room, but stopped in her tracks as she beheld her battle partner.

“What… what do you think?” Florina asked sheepishly.

“You look,” Lyn’s breathing was heavier. “Different.”

“I-I should fight like I usually do.”

“No!” Lyn commanded, cutting the suggestion down, looking at this Florina with wild eyes full of respect. “I _love_ it.”

“…Really?”

Lyn vigorously nodded. “You’re so smart, Florina. Without Huey around, you needed something like this. It blasts any gap still between you and us other three, foot combat not being your discipline.”

“Well, I, I…”

“You’re ready,” Lyn breathed, then corrected herself. “We’re ready. Florina, do you trust me?”

“Of course, Lyn... I…”

“And I trust you,” the plainswoman cut her off, determined to strike the nerves as they frayed. “Now, come on – let’s show those two pompous asses who runs this city!”

\--

Lucius and Mark settled down into reserved seating in the stands of the ring. The usual arena had been cleaned up for the event, stains scuffed out and the persisting smell of blood and booze washed away for a class of battle that was far more courtly. The stone towers stretched above them, and the circular pit of gravel beneath them. They weren’t the best seats reserved for the official parties, but from them the two onlookers could observe the whole arena and with it the entire battle.

“Not too bad, right?” Mark asked the monk.

“Just being in here makes my skin crawl,” Lucius admitted. “This is a brutish place.”

“Yes,” Mark agreed. “But it has its place – look! Here they come!”

From one side of the arena emerged Eliwood and Raven, the two running onto the field to a fresh round of riotous applause. The visiting lord, Durandal in hand, rose the impressive weapon for one more cheap cheer from those supporting Pherae. The two crunched their way across the stones through to the centre of the arena, where Sain was waiting alongside a rack of weaponry.

“Sain,” Eliwood acknowledged, shaking the knight’s hand.

“My lord,” the green replied fondly. “Will you place that weapon aside so that the duel can be fought fairly?”

“Of course,” Eliwood said, twirling the Durandal between his fingers and suspending it from the racks, taking in its place a fine swept-hilt rapier that was on offer. He practised his stance and a thrust or two, before sweeping the weapon down and nodding agreeably. “Balance is superb, quality of the steel is excellent. This is my weapon – compliments to the smithy.”

Sain nodded, and turned to Raven. “And for you, my lord?”

Raven, who had his own silver sword readied and his lightweight crest shield strapped to his left forearm, shook his head. “Don’t need anything.”

Sain nodded, then looked tentatively to the other side of the field as awareness spread of the other two entrants. From the crowds, Mark couldn’t help but chuckle smugly as the crowd let loose an enormous gasp before bursting into thunderous, home-field applause as Lyn and Florina entered.

“My, my,” Lucius admired the applause. “I can see why they’re clapping. It looks much better in the sunlight.”

Mark nodded smugly. He’d called in a lot of favours to have this ready – but everything was beginning to come up good.

Lyn looked a fierce sight in her usual Sacaen battle wear – turquoise dress with yellow lining, split for high manoeuvrability, both Mani and Sol Kattis drawn as she approached.

But next to her was a nightmare in white.

Florina walked beside Lyn, the shorter girl nonetheless more intimidating in a full suit of highly ornate armour that exuded all the pomp and circumstance an arena lancer should command. Less infantryman and more dragoon, the armour had styled wing motifs swooping down from the pauldrons, covering vulnerable arm and back areas Florina would be unused to protecting due to her usual height advantage. The armour met at the chest, a central pointed tip that was more like the sharp prow of a battleship than anything else, and rather than any kind of cape a single, fluttering violet scarf billowed in the wind behind her, along with a second ivory one that had been tied inches beneath the blade of Florina’s white spear. Most importantly, she did not seemed slowed at all, closer inspection revealing that the armour was wafer-thin and fit the girl’s frame perfectly. She and Lyn walked thus in total unison, their steps and breaths synchronised as they reached the centre.

“This is not the Florina I remember, is it?” Eliwood asked, the smile never leaving his face.

“N-not today, Lord Eliwood!” she declared. “Today Lyn and I are going to win!”

The crowd cheered for their captain as she made this stand, causing those on the field to marvel at the fresh wave of noise. Lyn, wordlessly, hung the Mani Katti and Sol Katti on the rack, sister blades glowing with their immense aura even as they were inert. She then lifted a curved crimson blade with a killing edge from the assembly, feeling the fine blade’s make and character and finding it to her satisfaction.

“Now, I doubt any of you need reminders,” Sain said to the four. “But I have to. If you’re disarmed, you’re not necessarily out. You’re out when you’re in a position where that person’s move would undoubtedly have killed or harmed you. I will shout “out” when that happens.”

Eliwood smirked at Lyn, who licked her lips. Raven remained completely expressionless, and Florina hoped her glimmering armour was distracting from her quivering lip.

“When out, you leave the field,” Sain summarised. “Last one standing takes it home for their team. Are we good?”

All four combatants gave verbal and nonverbal confirmations. Sain seemed satisfied, and waved them to their positions – four spaces equidistant from the centre of the pit.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Sain bellowed, as loudly as he could, as they moved into this starting image, “Our final bout of the day has arrived! Representing Pherae: the lords of two houses!” he gestured to Eliwood and Raven. “The second: The Raven of the battlefield! The red death! Ladies and gentlemen, LORD RAYMOND OF CORNWALL!”

Raven scoffed off the round of applause that was directed at him, keeping his arms folded.

“And his captain: the first knight of Lycia!” Sain roared, “Durandal’s chosen, and the nobleman among nobles! YOUR VISITING MARQUESS, LORD ELIWOOD OF PHERAE!”

Ever the highborn, Eliwood gave a courteous wave and – seemingly just to infuriate Mark – blew a kiss to his wife, who was watching transfixed from the seating.

“REPRESENTING CAELIN!” Sain restarted, with more pauses to build frenzy among the patriotic supporters, “Your two ladies of iron!” He gestured to the two women, who shot each other a reassuring glance. “The second of this mighty union: the angel’s sign! The flower with thorns! And now, THE HALBERDIER IN WHITE – FLORINA OF ILIA!”

Florina gulped and raised her lance as the new cheers blasted their way across the space.

“AND YOUR CAPTAIN, CAELIN!” he roared, building up yet again. “The sword from the plains! The breaker of poisons! The Duchess of Sol and Moon!”

“Get on with it,” Raven hissed under his breath.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR MARQUESS, MY MARQUESS, OUR LADY LYNDIS OF SACAE!”

The roar was apocalyptic. People stamped her feet and hands to create a most deafening din that surely must have been the loudest ever heard in a Lycian arena. The tension was visible and tangible.

“WHEN WIL’S ARROW HITS THE GROUND, IT BEGINS!” Sain shouted, before promptly running off the field. From the stands, all eyes turned to Wil as he lined up his last shot of the day – an exercise of extraordinary trust, his stance was sure and his aim steady, feeling the creaking of the breeze as he stabilised the arrow between his fingers. The thin wire that would give the projectile its momentum strained and struggled as Wil held it in place, waiting, confirming.

With a near-silent coughing of the wind Wil let his shot loose, and the dart sailed one hundred, two hundred, three hundred metres through the air in a perfect, measured arc – and slammed into the ground, digging into the gravel a miraculous half-metre from the dead-centre marking on the field.

Feet dashed.

Weapons sang.

The duel began.

The two foremost lords clashed in a vicious melee that immediately devolved into a blur of blues and steel, Eliwood catching Lyn’s curved blade on the hilt of his rapier and riposting her, then going on the offensive with a series of light probing strikes – the crowd gasped as one came all too close to bypassing her defence, but she held.

Florina had no time to be concerned for her love, as Raven was upon her instantly. Clearly, an offensive strategy had been deemed the best approach, as the man was not bothering with his shield – choosing instead to lay into the girl with his broadsword. Florina, gifted as ever with exceptional speed of movement, used her light footwork to keep clear of his blade, and placed him at distance with the tip of her lance. She struck twice, using the length of the thing – both stabs thudded uselessly against the face of the shield, but Raven’s advance slowed. It was to be her best advantage in such a fight –

Until suddenly, in a momentum of royal colour, it was not Raven she fought but Eliwood, the nobleman in his sparring guards of Pheraen blue and gold whirling around her, rapier a solid flash of sounding steel that danced its way around her defences. He was terrifying to behold – and he knew it, the lord tapping either side of her lance with the flat of his sword playfully before unleashing a new, deadly strike. Florina, spear gripped tight with both hands, tried to push his blade away with its length, but he remained on her flank at all times, driving her footwork, tiring her out.

Lyn tried to reach Florina, but her footsteps, too, were halted – Raven crouched before her in a readied stance, his sword held high but his shield raised and locked in formation, a one-man phalanx. He was calm, relaxed, not at all willing to make the first strike, which suggested to Lyn that his job right now was deterrence as Eliwood constantly chipped away at Florina’s stance. Lyn cursed herself for not realising that not only would the girl’s lance give her an advantage, but make her a target.

The swordswoman let loose a lightning-fast swipe with her red edge, but Raven was quick to read the movement and raised his shield – the façade of the thing sparked and scraped as the blade drew across it, making no incision. It would have been a perfect chance for the mercenary to counterattack, however Raven made no such attempt; instead simply stepping forward and hustling Lyn away from the other two with his advance.

“No joint strategy, was it?” Mark scoffed to the acolyte beside him. “This isn’t a duel, it’s cat and mouse.”

Lucius had never before prayed for Raymond to lose a confrontation, but he wished it now so that this clearly worried Mark could retain control of his plan.

It did not look hopeful, however, as Florina began to tire early from the other’s barrage. Eliwood danced around her, smug smirk and peerless form in full flight as, once again, he dodged the girl’s wild jab and forced her tool down with a sharp smack from his blade, throwing her off-balance before closing in for a fresh attempt at securing an uncompromised victory. He did this repeatedly, keeping her spear low to the ground so that she couldn’t use its superior range and unpredictable attack pattern. Florina cast a quick glance outward, seeing her charge unable to pass Raven’s defensive stance. Lyn herself could not focus, as she was losing ground shortly after each attempt at bypassing Raven, her panic only worsening with each metre that stretched between Florina and herself.

Suddenly Eliwood was closer than he’d ever been, his rapier just shy of Florina’s shoulder as she raised her white lance to block. “She can’t help you,” the lord breathed. “You either fight me, or you lose.”

Florina’s face reddened at being chastised by her opponent, and with an unladylike grunt she threw the Marquess back and pointed her spear forward, stance renewed and mind clear. Florina thrust forward, and as Eliwood tried his now standard defence she lifted the spear, stopping his movement short and giving her clearance to withdraw the spear for another thrust – the man was surprised by this, stepping back a few steps out of respect for the weapon’s reach and accuracy.

Meanwhile, Lyn attempted a desperate manoeuvre – she charged. She swung her blade to target Raven’s sword instead of his shield; his right arm, foolishly not tensed, crumpled under the sudden impact against the blade it carried. Raven grunted in surprised discomfort – which Lyn then followed up, ducking under his blind swing with the shield and shoulder-barging the mercenary, gripping him in a crash-tackle that sent them both tumbling to the ground.

Both fighters hit the dirt, scrabbling painfully among the rocks as they tried to regain their footing – but Lyn had it better, having been cushioned by the fall of Raven’s own body. She clambered over him, elbowed his face as his sword came to bear, gripped her own weapon and rose into a dash, not bothering to waste time confirming the ‘kill’. Eliwood had just succeeded in scraping the tip of his rapier against Florina’s thin white armour as Lyn intercepted his blade, the Sacaen performing a deadly uppercut that separated the two fighters and allowed the plainswoman to dash between them – saving the Pegasus knight and reclaiming Eliwood as her opponent.

“Florina, around me!” Lyn shouted, as Eliwood immediately adjusted to the well-defined conversation of battle he and Lyn possessed. Florina patiently watched, the armoured girl’s footwork light and nuanced as she tracked the movement and rhythm of Lyndis’ technique – there!

As Lyn’s killing edge verged upwards and the rapier followed to halt it, Florina took her chance – thrusting her spear underneath Lyn’s armpit and through Eliwood’s defences. The blow struck his breastplate but glanced off with a spray of sparks, as the girl in white had been too excited with her strike and thus cut too soon and too lightly. It had the desired effect, however, as not only did the crowd both coo in appreciation of its finesse and cringe at the closeness of the strike to a killing blow, but it painted a magnificent tableau of shock and humiliation on Eliwood’s face as the lord felt the speartip graze his armour.

He immediately turtled, retreating backwards, rapier held low and defensive. It was Lyn and Florina that now advanced in unison, Lyn keeping up a solid offensive of wide, sweeping slashes and her second acting where she could, placing solid strikes that exploited holes and blind spots in the redhead’s admittedly formidable defence.

That was until, a body crashed into Florina, the sudden impact robbing her lungs of their breath.

The woman went head over heels, her usual weight compounded by the plates of thin metal that surrounded her form. She crashed into the gravel in a series of loud scrapes, her vision catching the blur of the crowd and the grey of stones as she tumbled. When at last she stopped, her arms and knees securing her to the ground, she tasted iron in her mouth and saw stars in her vision – blinking to clear her sight, she reached for her spear and, finding it in the gravel next to her, looked up.

Raven stood some twelve feet away, lowering his shield and panting, recovering from the colossal attack in which his own momentum had been used as weapon enough. He was planted firmly to the ground, ready, clearly having stepped back after decelerating from the shield charge. As Florina brought herself to her feet, shaking her head for clarity, the crowds bayed for action – and Raven responded in turn, bashing the flat of his shield thrice with his sword, an aggressive display that won them over to his supremacy.

Florina ran the numbers. She and Lyn had developed a fine strategy against Eliwood; however, victory was unattainable if the men continued to whittle them down with their even strategy that favoured division and dance. For them… no, for Lyn to be successful, Florina thought, it was on her winged shoulders to get rid of Raven here and now.

The mercenary directed his sword against his shield once more, and began to advance. The crash of metal on metal rang in Florina’s ears – but that gesture, she realised, intentionally or not, gave her the very answer she sought.

As Raven broke into a run, Florina flipped the spear in her hand from underarm to overarm, and after taking the time to guide her motion and wind up, flung the thing in a practised motion straight towards Raven… or, more correctly, Raven’s left side. The mercenary stopped in his tracks as he saw the spear fly towards him, brief terror turning into adaptive calm as he rose the protective buckler on his left arm and waited.

When the pointed weapon collided, it brought Raven off his feet. The tip of the spear punched through the shield just above Raven’s arm and jammed there, the force of the throw transferring its kinetic energy straight into Raven body. His forward momentum was forcefully reversed as he was carried backwards by his arm, spun dramatically in mid-air, and landed face down in the gravel with the harsh crunch of rocks against body. This action gave Florina her chance. She braced and started running, the armour proving vital – instead of the usual nightmare that was running in plate, the segments on this set shifted and scaled across their hinges in way that encouraged the movement, leaving the sprint free from interference. The girl pelted across the rocks to where Raven had landed and, just as he was starting to get his bearing, lashed out with her armoured foot. She kicked her spear free from his shield, the blow disorienting Raven once more, and then ducked down and scooped the mercenary’s sword off the ground. She pivoted on her foot and, with a spectacular twirling flourish, pointed the silver blade at the recovering warrior’s neck.

“RAYMOND, OUT!” Came Sain’s cry, to fresh howls of jubilation from their audience.

Eliwood and Lyn had caught sight of this, and now Eliwood was working double time – Lyn’s speed was unstoppable on the offensive, but now she was on the backfoot; it was the man’s fast armwork and superior placement of surgical strikes that made him deadly. In a flourish of blows that targeted Lyn’s legs he pushed the noblewoman back a full two metres, as she furiously back-stepped to keep clear. This was exactly what Eliwood wanted; with a thin smirk he rushed her down, colliding his sword into hers, and with a great heave tossed Lyn back into the dirt. With a quick flourish he raised his rapier to confirm Lyn’s defeat, however, the white blur that was Florina rushed between the lord and the downed girl. Clutching Raven’s sword in both hands, gripping the thing tight but hunched, it looked too heavy for her to wield efficiently – and this showed on her face, not only caked in dust but mapped in trickling trails of sweat than ran from forehead to chin.

Eliwood rose his sword to fight, but stopped at the sight of her, holding back a laugh. “Florina,” he chuckled. “Go back and get your spear.”

“I won’t,” she growled. “You’re not getting to Lyn.” It was final.

The lord swept his rapier in front of his face, indicating he had acknowledged Florina’s resolve. “Very well!” he declared. “But don’t expect much from a sword you can barely lift.”

“I can lift it just fine,” she corrected. “I was just buying time!”

Lyn manifested from behind Florina as the nimble plainswoman did a spectacular combat roll over Florina’s back. The armoured girl acted as the fulcrum of Lyn’s vault as the plainswoman brought herself, limbs, blades and all, before Eliwood and unleashed a devastating strike. The red steel crashed like a meteor onto the waiting rapier and bashed it towards the earth, thin sword collapsing downwards as Eliwood’s momentum was brought to a stumbling halt. Florina followed up behind her, spear-strike forcing the red-haired lord back again as Lyn, nimble as could be, darted to Eliwood’s flank – and for a doomed moment the Pheraen had to contend with the white spear and the red katana as both vied for the attention of his rapier.

Finally, however, Eliwood gained purchase, and he pushed Lyn away with a heave of his chest. There was no sense of smug security on his face any more – he was all effort as he twisted quickly to riposte Florina in the chaos of combat. Lyn grinned from her position of distance. This was exactly what she had wanted, now. She flicked the killing blade into readiness, and then, to those not learned in following her, flickered out of sight in a frenzy of speed.

Eliwood panicked. Lyn was approaching, from what angle he didn’t know – but with Florina’s pressure hard on his front he could not defend. Lyn could only be seconds away now; he had to make a choice between defending against two opponents well, or one opponent poorly.

Either compromised his position, but it was a decision he made.

He turned to Florina and started performing overhead strikes, bringing the thin sword down over and over against the pole of her lance, sending the shockwaves shuddering through her arms and armour. She buckled under the impacts and then, crucially – bent down to one knee to better absorb their force. He brought his knee up then, flying through the girl’s wide open stance and kicking the spear from her hands. Knowing it was over for her, Florina performed a last manoeuvre – she lashed out quickly and dug her gauntleted fist into the man’s stomach, a rapid punch that had Eliwood grunt and hunch momentarily before he held his rapier down at Florina.

“FLORINA, OUT!”

Then Lyn was there, her critical strike landing. Eliwood turned to block it, his arm locked, his stance stolid – but his core, weakened at that last moment, strained too far in holding back Lyn’s deadly strike and the rapier all but collapsed in the lord’s hands with a defeated clang of steel. Lyn landed, flicked her katana upwards to disarm the visitor, and held its blade to the last man’s neck.

“ELIWOOD, OUT!”

The instant wall of noise exploded, and, dropping her sword, Lyn grabbed the redhead by the scruff of his shirt and pulled him in, giving him a peck on the cheek that was equal parts insult and affection. “I,” she grinned an animal grin at him, “haven’t fought like that in years.”

Eliwood beamed back through a couple of injured coughs as Sain whooped out roar after roar in support of Caelin’s home team, whipping the already-applauding crowd to celebratory fever pitch.

Florina and Raven re-entered as the noise from the frenzied audience deafened all present. “Give them a wave,” Eliwood advised Lyn, throwing his arm over her shoulder for the crowed. “To many of the Ostians or Pheraens visiting? You just became Marquess.”

Sure enough, with a sheepish smile, Lyn gave a tentative wave to further applause.

“See?” Lucius reprimanded the breathless Mark from his side seat. “A bit of faith.”

“Let it be known!” the visiting Marquess bellowed to the assembled viewers. “Let it be known that I was disarmed by Lyndis of Caelin,” he held up her hand triumphantly – “But defeated by Florina of Ilia!” He then grabbed the other girl’s pale, thinly armoured hand and thrust it skyward also, so that each woman was on either side of him, having them soak in an applause seemingly undying in length and unlimited in volume.

“THE FINEST TEAM!” Eliwood roared. “THE FINEST COUPLE IN LYCIA!”

From that distance, no-one saw the two go bright red.

\--

Some hours passed, and the sky’s blue hues had begun to stretch at last into oranges and pinks, as from her balcony Lyn watched the sunset. The guests had all been given time to rest and bathe before the feast, and Lyn herself had enjoyed the cleansing feeling as it erased dirt, sweat and worries from her form. She now sat freely against the balustrade, watching the sun set over the plains of Caelin, and thinking of home. But her friends were her home, she thought, and surely their presence outmatched that of mere winds and grasses?

As if on cue, there was a knock at her door. Lyn hoped it was a friend, and not some overeager well-wisher. She was dressed in formal trousers, but above the waist wore only an undershirt – completely unsuitable for entertaining any but the most informal of guests.

“Who is it?” she asked, crossing her fingers for a favourable answer.

“It’s me, Ms. Marquess!” came Eliwood’s voice playfully from the other side. Lyn let out a single long laugh and went to the door to reply, opening it just a crack to see him.

“Oh, Mister Marquess Pherae,” she cooed in faux flirtation. “We simply must stop meeting like this; the gossipers will talk.”

“Let them talk!” he laughed, the façade breaking. “I’ve brought cheese, so open up.”

It was exactly what Lyn wanted to hear. She undid the latch on her door and opened up to let in her friend, before closing the door again. “It better be as stinky as the one at your coronation.”

“Better. The paper can’t contain it – it smells from five feet away.” He opened up a leather satchel slung around his shoulder and produced a wheel of cheese wrapped in thin white paper, along with a knife and a loaf of bread. “We were this close to either sealing it in wax or getting it its own carriage.” He was not exaggerating – the acrid, sulphuric smell of aged soft cheese filtered through the air. Lyn nearly coughed.

“Heavens, you’re right,” she marvelled, taking the thing out of his hands and placing it on a small, tastelessly-decorated platter she had received as a gift from a lord earlier. “I’ve never forgotten the food from that night. I swear, I’d never tasted anything so delicious.”

“I must admit,” Eliwood said as he unwrapped the cheese from the thin paper, letting the circular mound hit the plate, “I grew up with all the niceties one could ever want. Sometimes I wonder if I was spoiled.”

“Well, if you were – and I’m not saying you were,” Lyn started, wasting no time. Having torn off just enough bread to offset the taste she now took the knife and sunk it into the rind, watching the soft surface be punctured and give way to the creamy, oozing yellow substance inside. “It’s worth it for this.”

For a time, the two merely sat side by side on Lyn’s balcony, watching day slowly but surely give way to night in its own hypnotic way. The occasional scraping of the knife as it hit the platter and the muted chewing of both was all there was to hear.

“By the Saint, that’s good…” Lyn said at last, before placing the knife down and lying down on her back. “So, Marquess Pherae, tell me – how is the married life?”

Eliwood lay down also, lying his head upon his hands, his own vision scanning the horizon; from the blazing gradient of the passing sunset to the cooling dim purple of dusk becoming night. “Blissful,” he replied, “though mother still says I’m wet behind the ears.”

“Well, she’s right. I’ve heard plenty of people grumble about their long marriages…”

Eliwood shook his head as best he could. “I don’t see why we’re so keen to prophecise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wars, famine, disaster. I don’t see why we can’t predict something beautiful for once. Like the coming of love… the birth of a child.” Lyn turned to her head to see his, and saw reflected in his crystalline eyes the first stars of evening, glimmering as they burned and stood sentinel. “Maybe it’s naïve. Maybe everyone thinks they got it right at first. But… I feel like Ninian and I really did.”

Lyn said nothing, only rolled onto her side to watch him as he rose to a seated position, hugging his legs. “It’s just – it’s so good right now, Lyn. It’s amazing. Every moment I spend awake is a blessing.”

Lyn looked at the mighty Marquess who had come to visit today and now saw just a man, younger than she was, happy, and yet completely mystified by sudden lack of the world weighing down upon his shoulders. He was a man alive with great riches of the soul, yet also somewhat unsettled by the near-immediate replacement of unease and conflict with happiness, and security, and beauty.

“Naïve, maybe a little… but I wouldn’t want to lose that either.” Lyn said, turning her eyes back to the sky, watching as the stars seemingly flickered to life, one at a time, before their eyes. “What was it the Archsage said?”

Without missing a beat, Eliwood responded. “‘An evil star rises in Bern. All of Elibe will be once again awash in blood… but do not fear. Once again, Lycia brings hope.’ I’ve had those words burned into my mind, Lyn.”

“Maybe it won’t come true. Athos was dying.”

“Now you’re being a little naïve,” Eliwood countered. “The miracles that took place in that final battle… do you recall the magic? That power, impossible to comprehend?”

“I’ve not been able to forget it,” she concurred. “Not for one second in nearly five years.”

“Neither have I,” Eliwood said. “Because it’s only because of that… unknowable power that I live in such bliss now. To think, that that very power gives me both a life worth protecting and the fear of losing it.”

They were silent for a moment, before suddenly Lyn seemed to shudder lightly and release a restrained, guttural, nasal sound. Eliwood turned to face her, only to find her struggling with supreme difficulty at holding in laughter. Upon seeing his confused expression she gave up, the sound bursting from her lips in loud melodious strides that cut the cool night air and carried love on their wings.

“Do you remember when Hector chased you around camp for nearly a half-hour after he dreamed that your dream son had stolen his dream daughter away?” she stammered this out in between new cleaves of laughter that broke her speech and lit up her features.

“How could I forget?” Eliwood all but jumped at the memory. “It was terrifying. No Black Fang assassin ever scared me so much.”

“Well, you seemed so sure that that dream was prophetic, if I recall,” Lyn said. “So maybe if old blue-beard really did dream about a time so peaceful that your son has time to sweep his daughter off her feet… maybe there’s more variety in prophecy than you first thought.”

Eliwood tutted his own short-sightedness, letting a smile somewhere between relief and realisation spread across his lips. “Blast, you’re right…” he sighed. “Still, isn’t that Hector in a nutshell? Not even here, and still providing solutions. What a guy.”

“We’ll pour one out for him later on,” Lyn assured him. “I haven’t envied his job, putting Lycia back together after Darin did his best to wreck it.”

“There were a rough couple of years after Uther died,” Eliwood added, “but I saw him not too long ago, and things are looking up now. He and Farina have become a real item… now that’s a love built brick by painful brick. You know, I sometimes thought you two would get together.”

“Me? And Hector?” Lyn sat up next to him.

“Yes, you and Hector.”

“But we were always arguing!”

“Exactly! You argued so much that any kind of actual malice was impossible!”

“Oh, please. Maybe in another life.” That was turning into her line of the day.

“What about that other plainsman? Rath?”

Lyn scoffed. “Be still, my beating heart. See, he got closest. He would’ve been a complete package if he had any kind of personality to speak of.”

Eliwood laughed, commenting on her brutality.

“It’s true, though!” Lyn argued. “I have friends too smart and talkative to put up with a one-word-answer husband. Besides, maybe what’s best for me is someone who keeps me civilised, someone a bit softer than I am. I’m not interested in babysitting, but…”

“Well,” Eliwood said, as the final, uppermost apex of the great circular sun finally sank below the distant mountains. “Whoever that ends up being, I support you until the very end.”

Lyn took the sentiment in. It was more than a statement of support – it was a promise, the definitive pledge of a man of his word.

“Thanks, Eliwood.” She put an arm around his neck and pulled him close. “I’m glad you’re here.”

They watched a few minutes more, then bade each other a brief farewell as the ever-darkening sky made the meaning painfully clear that dinner loomed ever nearer. Eliwood took his leave – but left what remained of the cheese.

\--

The seismic, wet sound of a throat being cleared.

“A missive,” Eliwood declared, his chest voice booming from one end of Castle Caelin’s dining hall to the other. “From Marquess Ostia and military regent of Lycia, his excellency Lord Hector. I shall, uh, omit his more personal greeting to me.” Scattered laughter followed this statement – indeed, Hector’s brash personality was known to all, and rubbed a great many the wrong way.

Eliwood turned over the carefully creased paper of the letter he clutched in his hand.

“Do not get used to me apologising,” Eliwood read, “But I am genuinely sorry I cannot attend this banquet – the hospitality of Lords Hausen and Lyndis have become legendary in recent years, and Caelin has the finest draught beer this side of Badon.” Further laughter followed. “And of course, you should all know that I am always remiss to see a chance to celebrate with my favourite hothead go to waste – and Eliwood too, I guess.” Lyn’s laughter was loudest of all.

Eliwood began to reach the letter’s emotional core. “We in Lycia are right now blessed with remarkable peace.” Heads began nodding from emotional retainers and heads of states still recovering from conflict. “The insane actions of the former Marquess Laus cost Lycia a great loss of life, and yet we stand. The sudden loss of my brother Uther, and Lord Elbert of Pherae, robbed us all of two of our greatest mentors – and yet, we learn.” Ninian squeezed Eliwood’s other hand sympathetically.

“So in feasts like this one be happy,” the word of Hector summarised, “and be assured of the knowledge that the children we nurture will, as sure as daylight, replace our voices at these tables and our faces in those paintings. So glory be to Lycia, blessings be to our children, and light to tomorrow. Cheers, Hector.”

The ten long tables, filled to bursting with guests, erupted into applause for the absent man, applause that crammed the air with sonic percussion and all but shook the utensils on the surface of the tables. The feasting hall around them was filled with the sound. The enormous, high-vaulted stone room had a balcony on one end of the room and a raised stage on the other, on which was the last table seating the official parties of Caelin and Pherae. Hanging above them all was the massive pyramidal sunroof which, with a force of many men, could be operated by pulleys to be opened up to the elements; for now, however, the stars glimmered through the glass silently. The sound of applause continued to rack the environment, enduring for a moment before Eliwood called for quiet. His wife sat to his immediate left, now starting to struggle to pay attention out of ravenous hunger. On his right was Lord Hausen, on the older man’s right was Lyn, and on her right Florina – another machination of Mark’s seating plan.

Behind them, on a protected, cushioned obsidian pedestal layered with silky adornments and house treasures, the blessed blades Durandal and Sol Katti were leaned across each other as a sign of inter-march friendship. Of the two blades Durandal seemed at first the more impressive. Due to its reputation as the great hero-king Roland’s personal weapon, as well as its peerless shape and making; the stunning broad blade with its black central valley seemed infinitely vast when examined, the jewels and obsidian layered into its hilt and pommel glimmering with every slight shift of the light. The Sol Katti, however, was no slouch; its extreme length and the peerless thinness of its edge gave the silver and gold blade an inherent impression of deadliness and finesse. The great curved guard, adorned with solar motifs to contrast the lunar theming of the Mani Katti, was so mathematically precise that it pleased the eye and boggled the mind without any effort whatsoever. These two blades were displayed high, their own glittering forms reflecting light out in a superb latticework of wall-dwelling spots of illumination.

“Now, I don’t claim to be a speechwriter,” Eliwood said. “But I do know Hector, and I guarantee you he had help on that.” A murmur of laughter passed around the room. “I don’t need to say much more. I know my wife, currently eating for two, is famished – and I fear she’ll soon eat me, so I’ll be brief.”

Lyn struggled back a laugh. Four tables away, Mark shook his head.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned since the death of my father,” Eliwood began, “It’s the preciousness of life, what it means to have a person in one’s life. We… we’re more than connected, we’re joined. Linked, like chain-mail. The link is made stronger by the overlapping of each other in each other’s lives. I am blessed every day that my beautiful wife is by my side, and I am about to be blessed – hopefully, every day until my own passing – with the company of our child. But more than that, I am blessed by friends like Lyndis of Sacae, like Hausen of Caelin, Hector of Ostia, and indeed countless others within and without this Lycian League.”

He nodded, finding the resolution in his heart. “So Hector is right. Light to tomorrow. That is a rallying cry for our future – but while we have that light, that peace, grasped in our hands right now… the kind of peace that makes superb nights like this, and timeless friends like our dear hosts even possible… I implore everyone who can, tonight, after our scrumptious feast is concluded,” he paused for effect and scanned the room. “Go out into this world, fly to your houses, to your businesses, to your wilds – to wherever you call home, find the ones you love, and do not let them go for a good, long while. Because if not for that, if not for that embrace… then what are we fighting for?”

Thoughtful agreement made its way around the hall.

“That’s all I have to say.” Eliwood stated, then turned to face the two to his right. “Marquess Caelin?”

Hausen wordlessly turned to his granddaughter, who in turn stood. Her outfit was surprisingly masculine, considering her usual wear – a midnight blue top layered in Lycian patterns, with an elegant bronzed Sacaen scarf draped across her shoulders, wrapping around her elbow-high gloves. Around her waist there was tied an outward-splaying sash which framed her hips, and the strangely stately look was completed with formal laced trousers from which hung, as always, the Mani Katti. Her hand rested on the curved blade’s hilt assertively as she cleared her throat.

“Enough waiting!” Lyn declared simply. “Let’s eat!”

Great plates of food were then produced, huge wooden wheels carried by three men and piled high with seared meats both light and dark, juicy and fatty and rare, lush and vast bowls of leafy salads, and aromatic selections of spices and sauces. Wines flowed in red and white rivers, the careful selection of which with one’s meat of choice a chance for the preening socialites to demonstrate their knowledge of such frivolities. What flowed ever more, however, was talk. The chattering compulsion jumped from mouth to mouth, its mass presence giving the air thunderous life.

At one table, Wil chatted to Lowen about his childhood friend – now Lowen’s wife.

“So, has Rebecca been giving you much trouble?” Wil asked as he sipped the sharp fruitiness of the local white to go with his pork. “I imagine she would’ve been here if she could.”

“Trouble?” Lowen mumbled, “She is quite pregnant… so yes.”

“Her, too?” Wil exclaimed. “Man… Hector and Farina, Eliwood and Ninian, Pent and Louise… you’d think there’d been a war, with all these babies coming along.”

“Well…” Lowen suggested calmly, “for us, there was…”

At another, Kent withstood Sain’s laughter at his difficulty eating with a cast on, causing the upright cavalier to regret his commitment to Mark’s scheme more and more with each fresh difficulty.

“I never appreciated until now just how much,” Kent struggled to cut through a belligerently stringy cut of steak, “of eating came down to wrist movements.”

Sain said uncharacteristically little, just howling with laughter each time Kent inevitably experienced a new problem in the act of manipulating the foodstuffs.

At another table still, Lucius and Mark discussed theology.

“You see,” Lucius said, after swallowing a mouthful of salad, “many people fervently pray to the Saint, but have a twisted understanding of Her role. They pray for results, for the changing of fortunes, victory in battle, success in life… Elimine does not decide our futures here, She was but mortal originally, and in Her immortal form acts as our spiritual guide to attaining Her perfection. I’ve always thought you understood this better than most, Mark.”

“Mmm. But don’t put that down to any kind of solid faith,” Mark countered. “I just think we mortals should finish what we start – no need to trouble the spirits about it. It’s better to plan battles with what you have – only a fool counts blessings among his resources.”

“Well said,” Lucius agreed, “but I have one counter-argument. Our final battle at the Dragon’s Gate. What blessings; I prayed to the Saint for a miracle, and She gave several.”

Mark could give no rebuttal to the truth of Lucius’ statement, so instead he changed the field slyly. “What about a miracle for tonight? Help us get those two soulmates together?” He asked cheekily, gesturing to Lyn and Florina at the main table as he deliberately probed for a response from Lucius, who was refusing to bite. “What, no comment? I suppose that’s fitting, for you two. ‘Those in glass houses’, and all.”

Raven just about choked on his mutton.

Up at the main table, Lyn and her champion of the day found themselves talking.

“And that superb thrust! Florina, I’d no clue that you’d practiced your footwork so much!” Lyn was beaming at the purple-haired girl, who was now done up in a silky white dress layered with satin purples to match her hair – she was primarily eating vegetables, not out of any spoken distaste for meat, but because whites stained easily and meats had much juice to spill. The care and slowness with which Florina ate had always given Lyn a lot of happiness in its unintended cuteness.

“Well, I can’t rely on Huey being there all the time…” Florina said, having paused for a few seconds to swallow her mouthful. “I just hope I didn’t slow you down…”

“Not at all!” Lyn exclaimed, taking her hand. “Besides, remember what we promised each other? I’m there for you, and you’re there for me.”

Florina stared into Lyn’s eyes, catching a full glimpse of the drive and love that burned behind them. Heat crept into her cheeks, skin going rosy as the purple-haired girl nodded in agreement.

At the centre, the noble lord Eliwood wiped his mouth clear and took a lot around the room, taking in the sights and sounds of good conversation and friendly agreement. He wondered how many men and women were just now meeting for the first time, and many friendships and loves would be forged on this night that would come to define lives in turn.

Suddenly, something twinged in his mind. It took him a minute or so to figure out what it was – a deep recognition of a pattern long buried in his mind. Far at the other tables, Raven and Lucius acted in tandem as they talked to a scholar, with the swordsman in the front and the monk-turned-bishop following behind with tome and staff. Kent and Sain, laughing as always, were at the frontier, pushing the boundaries. Over some seats to his left, Marcus and Isadora, safe bets as always, hurried along to mop up stragglers and hold the rear guard. The cavalier Lowen guarded their archer Wil, Lyn and Florina watched each other’s backs, and there, right next to him, was Ninian. The woman was possibly on her third plate and Eliwood knew better than to disturb her with his wild suspicions – Instead, he caught Marcus’ eye and gestured the veteran knight over to him.

Marcus leaned over, and Eliwood took care to whisper. “Take a look around at our old comrades.” He waited as the man did so, looking for a sign of recognition. “Anything familiar about the formation?”

Marcus’ eyes scanned the scene for a moment hastily, before a flash of recognition caused his eyes to widen and look at his liege exictedly. “Do you think…?”

Eliwood nodded. “Keep an eye out.”

Marcus saluted and went back to his chair, after which Eliwood began to look the guests down one by one.

At their table, Raven listened as Mark had brought Lucius down to the heart of the matter.

“You’ve changed, Lucius. You’re so much more… peaceful than when I remember you.” Mark, despite his best interests, had become invested in the conversation. “I hope you wouldn’t put that, of all things, down to faith instead of good old human growth.”

“That,” Lucius said, throwing a glance at Raven, “is a combination of things. My life is happier in the years that have passed. To travel without the weight of the world, and not be looking over our shoulder… it is wonderful. To be reunited with my old host…” he leaned on Raven unexpectedly, causing the brooding soldier to nearly spill his drink. “I was blessed.”

“So you think the Saint was guiding you throughout our adventures?” Mark asked, in full knowing that it was a basic and shallow question, but would inspire the response he desired.

“Without question!” Lucius all but lit up. “First, I was able to help Lyn bring justice to Caelin. Then, I was reunited with Lord Raymond. And further still, as the journey went on and our battle against evil became more apparent, we met with two of the Eight Generals – people who knew the Saint in person, wielded her magic!” He was alive with fervour. “We not only saw, but were chosen to wield that power which, in ancient times, saved Elibe and safeguarded it from pain. As if meeting the Archsage and seeing his divine strength was not enough, I was then chosen by both you and him to wield the Aureola.” Lucius looked at his own hands, and found them shaking at the memory. “The Saint’s own, personal tome. Entrusted to me, in our final battle against darkness. You can say it was my ‘mastery of light magic’ all you want, Mark. But it was a blessing, a choice made, plain and simple… the Saint was guiding me to happiness.”

Mark nodded, unable to deny the man the validity of his awe, and then gestured to the diamond-like dragon girl at the head table. “And her?”

“She,” Lucius started, with a sharp intake of breath that indicated supreme reverence. By now Raven, though he was not letting it show, was listening intently. “I didn’t see her die. But I saw her body, and wept. I prayed for her essence to find peace in the life after. Knowing what she is, and knowing the strength of holy Durandal, all anyone could do was pray that her very soul had not been rendered by the blade.” Lucius was staring into space, as if re-experiencing the miracle for the first time once more. “So for Bramimond to pull her life, undamaged, whole, from the beyond and recover it unto this world… what a magic, a miracle, beyond comprehension. The Saint walks with us.”

Neither Mark nor Raven could respond, instead just turning their heads to face the girl in question, who was happily wiping her mouth, finally fulfilled, and leaning against her husband, who brushed a comforting hand down her long, silky hair and settled on her shoulder.

“Second chances don’t come along often,” Lucius said wistfully. “In fact, they’re usually no more than myth. Yet here we are, in the domain of the Saint, and in the company of her miracle. I wish her happiness. Endless happiness.”

Mark’s face soured as Eliwood turned to Ninian and whispered into her ear, making her laugh with the unheard comment.

“Don’t you wish you could know what she saw?” Raven asked morbidly. “In the life after?”

“Every day.” Lucius confirmed. The three men stared, and said little more until the plates began to be cleared.

\--

Dessert was served soon after, and Mark cast a glance up to the main table – Florina and Lyn were laughing, talking uninterrupted, with unbroken smiles adorning their faces and eyes exchanging looks full of longing. The plan was intact. Mark, however, felt his brow grow heavy. He had been worrying non-stop since earlier that day, and needed a moment off lest he think himself to death. He saw many other nobles and guests rising to use the bathroom or escape onto one of the many balconies for fresh air or tobacco, so he decided to do the same. Excusing himself from Raven and Lucius, he rose up and strode confidently out the door of the main hall, passing chittering nobles and guards on break.

Mark had been to Castle Caelin many times in the past since it had became Lyn’s home, and so quickly and silently slid through a door in the hallway that he knew led to a large guest bedroom which, due to its disadvantageous location, would be being used as a storeroom. The room was pitch-black and filled with dust littering the air, so he was undoubtedly correct – he let the tiny shaft of light from the ajar door guide him to a nearby candlestick on a mantle, which he lit with a curved fire striker produced from his enormous robe. In the dim glow of the single candle he saw the room around him littered with oaken furniture and disused paintings, leaning against one another in great piles, sharing their dust and mingling in the darkness. Mark turned back to the candle, rubbing his eyes wearily. He snatched the embarrassing nightcap off his scalp, clearing his head with the motion and breathing a sharp intake of air, thick with age but cleaner than the mix of smells and gases that made up the feasting hall right now.

“Hello, old friend.” The voice came from behind him. Mark hadn’t heard the door open, and spun around in panic – there, in the light of the frame, was none other than Lord Eliwood, regarding him with a sad smile. “It’s been a long time between drinks.”

Mark found himself baffled. Surely, there hadn’t been any flaws in his plan. “How did you…” he stopped himself and shook his head with a light smile, remembering the truth that sometimes, Eliwood just knew these things.

“Maestro.” The tactician greeted, using the old, sarcastic pet name he’d used for Eliwood at times.

Eliwood smiled pensively, walking into the room and closing the door behind him. “Lyn may have known you first, but she never knew how to be a noble the way I do.” He explained as he lifted the candlestick off the mantle near the door and navigated his way around the room, using the glimmering light to carefully light the way and illuminate the room properly through use of a few other candles. “After you left, I had our military study all of your tactics. I had them made curriculum, I had them analysed, I had them all but worshipped. I guess the patterns stuck in my mind. Never thought I’d see you planning parties, though.”

Mark resigned himself to talking with the man, having been caught red-handed in the act of being present. “Neither did I,” he grumbled as he sat down on the floor, leaning against a table turned on its side. “Maybe the adaptation process wasn’t quite perfect.”

Lord Eliwood murmured in agreement, and then, sweeping his enormous white cape to the side that that it wouldn‘t bunch or crush, sat down beside him. “What made you come back? We looked out for you at every wedding, every banquet, every ball. You know you’re welcome.”

“I knew. Of course I knew. That’s why I avoided it.” Mark confessed, eager to finally explain the persistence of his absence. “I’m a good tactician, Eliwood. We’re all war heroes, but… this is peacetime.” He stared at the floor, taking in every extravagant detail of the elaborate Sacaen rug. “I’m no good at this kind of thing, you know that. Friends are one thing, admirers and courtiers, that’s another.”

“So why are you here now?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me,” Eliwood said, his satisfied smile beginning to spur annoyance in Mark. “You know, I have members of our old squad visiting us all the time in Pherae, Mark. And I tolerate all of them. Pent and Louise, of course. Vaida, Karla and Bartre… even Hawkeye, once!” he laughed at the memory of the enormous man in a formal setting. “And some of them, Mark, some of them have given up hope of ever seeing you again. To be honest, I feel more sorry for the ones who haven’t. It’s like you just…”

“Oh, no. Don’t you say it.”

“…drifted apart from them.” Eliwood finished. There was a pause as, for a few seconds, the air hang still with tension.

“You know I hate that phrase.” Mark pouted, turning away.

“You hate it because you’re letting it happen,” Eliwood suggested calmly. “You evaded all mention, all rumour, for five years without flaw and now I find you under Lyn’s roof at my celebration, but with no-one seeming to even know that you’re here. Why?”

“Coincidence. I happened to-”

“Don’t even try it.” Eliwood cut him off. “Whatever’s brought you here, you volunteered to do it.”

“I’m… I’m just trying to make some people happy.”

“And do those people know that you’re here?”

“Yes- well, no.”

“Then it’s deceptive for you to be trying.”

Mark started to anger. “Don’t try me, Eliwood!”

The lord in question remained cool-headed. “Mark, don’t try and blame me for your guilt.”

“Oh yeah? You wanna talk about guilt? Let’s talk about guilt.” Mark was seething now, on his knees, fists clenched. “Don’t you feel any guilt? Any at all?”

Eliwood bit. “Guilt? For what?”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “For Ninian.”

Eliwood’s expression instantly turned to ice, reducing to a piercing gaze that Mark had seen all too often precede the immediate dealing of death.

“What about Ninian?” He spat.

\--

Back at the table, The dragon woman had joined in Lyn and Florina’s conversation, the three amiably chatting about the business of planning the party, with Ninian respectfully opining her preference for celebrations that were less focused feasts and more city-wide festivals, replete with dancing and fruits of the harvest.

“See,” Lyn explained, “with this one I had to keep it inside the castle, as is royal custom. So that was unfortunate. But I thought it might be good to keep the citizenry in on the fun, so I decided to hold a celebration of Caelin’s local produce in the city. The bulk of that is tomorrow night, and whoever else wants to is welcome to come.”

“That’s such a lovely idea, Lyn…” Ninian sighed gracefully. “I would love to stay and see that. Would you like me to try and convince Eli to stay another night?”

“That’s not necessary, Ninian!” Lyn started. “Your health and comfort comes first- wait. Eli?”

Ninian realised she had let the nickname slip, her face immediately melting into embarrassment as her pale cheeks started turning rose pink. “Ah… Yes… and he c-calls me… Nini…”

The wave of laughter that followed from Florina and Lyn was a true production of the belly, forged from deep-rooted sounds. Its discordant harmony was interrupted only by an unexpected entrant, whose form inserted itself into the conversation with a distinct lacking of grace or tact.

“Begging your pardon, noble ladies.” Lord Melville of Worde stood there, standing straight – and he did not wait for an acknowledgement. “I was wondering if I might beg the attention of Lyndis.”

“My friends call me Lyn,” she replied coolly. “But sure. What’s the matter, Lord Melville?”

Melville shifted uncomfortably on the spot. “Erm… perhaps alone, milady?”

Lyn shot an imperceptibly small glance of desperation at Ninian, who smiled earnestly back at her in understanding. “Alright,” she said, accepting her duties as host and pulling herself out of her chair. “Follow me.”

After the noblewoman had left earshot, Ninian calmly sank back into her chair and smoothly addressed the Pegasus knight. “You’re going to have to make your move soon, Florina.”

“W-what?”

Ninian dragged her chair close to Florina, heaving her pregnant body across in turn. “You’re an open book to me!” She declared enthusiastically, her expression suddenly dripping with enthusiasm and the excitement of participation. “If there is one thing I have enjoyed doing since entering Eliwood’s life, it is hearing stories of love – I want to help this one be written! Tell me everything!”

“I’m not sure what I can still do.” Florina sighed in self-frustration. “Mark and the others have set me up with a plan, but I can’t seem to…”

The visitor’s eyes lit up and her voice got a bit louder. “Mark? Mark’s here? Where?”

Florina desperately hushed her down, and took a minute to explain the situation, causing Ninian to lower her voice and nod along. “Alright,” the dancer breathed. “So, there is a plan to this. What was the next step?”

“That’s the thing,” Florina groaned, feeling creeping embarrassment. “Mark’s already done all he can. He had Kent fake an injury so that Lyn would pick me for the tourney, he had me sat next to her in the hall here, and we’re talking well, but I can’t… I just can’t say what I need to say. She’s still seeing me as someone to protect.”

“Hmm.” Ninian placed her forefinger on her chin and thought. “Eli’s thought of me as someone to protect since the day we met. He still does, whether he knows it or not.”

“So how did you…?”

“Well, most of the time I love that feeling, so I do nothing.” Ninian admitted with a chuckle that tinkled in the upper registers. “But, if he’s being stubborn, or forgets who I am… well, I can do this dragon thing with my eyes-”

“N-Ninian, please. What if we’re not part dragon?”

“Right. Well, um, a good one to do is be there for them physically. Don’t just talk to Lyn, give her something tactile, some feedback. I find that most love of the body is just reassurance.”

That actually struck Florina as good advice.

“Oh! And rescue!”

And that turned Florina’s head.

“Oh, yes. Sometimes when Eliwood’s stuck in a long meeting or something and I can feel that he’s suffering, I walk in there claiming to feel ill, or more recently that I have pains, and he is able to excuse himself and postpone the rest of the meeting,” she nodded. “It always reminds him that I’m here for him. I don’t think Lyn wants to meet that man, now or later, so maybe you should…” she trailed off invitingly.

“Should I?” Florina fought inwardly. “I don’t want to cross someone like Lord Melville… and she might see it as disrespectful.”

“She might!” Ninian agreed. “But Lyn is more impulsive than Eli to start with, and even he responds well to it. After it happens we’ll usually just be together for a while, or go to a spare room and-”

“I-I-I don’t t-to be responsible for h-having that knowledge,” Florina stammered in interruption.

This caused Ninian to laugh once more, a proper human laugh which Florina had never seen her produce before her marriage to Eliwood. It was loud and boisterous, imitative of human company, it didn’t fit her one bit – but Florina liked seeing it. In her mind, despite all the sorrow surrounding Ninian’s circumstances, it was uplifting to see that she was still learning new ways to be happy. It gave Florina courage.

Perhaps, she hoped, just enough courage.

\--

“Do you feel any guilt over letting her stay here?” Mark asked.

“She chose to stay. She did what she wanted to-”

“DON’T,” Mark warned suddenly, “claim she had agency in that decision, Eliwood. Her brother, her only remaining companion, about to leave this world forever and you say NOTHING to suggest that she should, might go with him? To see her home again? To see her people, her world-”

“Mark, please-”

“Her FAMILY!”

“Mark. Please. You don’t understand.” Eliwood, Mark could see, was doing his best to keep calm. The words sounded more like a warning than a correction.

Mark relented. “Then help me to.” He expelled an angry breath through his nostrils. “Because dumb teenager in love though you may have been, I still don’t know how you live with yourself.”

\--

Ninian, now alone, cradled a large bowl of sweet warm tea. Seemingly entranced by its aroma, she smiled enigmatically as she was at last approached by someone she had been expecting all evening. She took a sip, feeling its heat and its syrup, and then placed it down onto the saucer delicately, choosing to address him before he even opened his mouth. “Lord Raymond. You’ve wanted to speak to me since the main course.”

Raven bowed in reverence, realising he was being foolish for worrying whether or not he would be welcome to the woman; who now seemed to him more Goddess than anything. “Lady Ninian,” he appealed. “I know that during our trials, I was a different man.”

“Raven, I remember,” she replied, with the slightest of nods. “Do not worry. You may not believe it, but both my husband and Lord Hector, on his frequent visits to our home, now sing praises about Raymond of Cornwall, both as soldier and man.” She smiled sweetly. “And, of course, there is Lucius. You are very loved indeed. What did you want to ask me?”

Raven, now completely off guard, stammered out a question. “W-well, you see… I was wanting to know if you would tell me about…”

“About…?” she encouraged him.

He sighed and swallowed his nervousness. “The life beyond. If I may, my lady… what – what did you see there?”

Ninian paused, her smile suddenly filling with pity. “Are you scared?”

“Am I- huh?”

“Are you scared?” Ninian asked again. “I understand. You see, we dragons live very long. We see enough to understand just how connected life and death are,” she rose out of her chair to face Raven – she was shorter than him by some measure, but her motherly body, calm voice, and the massive silhouette of the raiment she wore gave her presence beyond her form. “Human lives are short by comparison, and lack our perception of quintessence and magic. You think that life and death are somehow… opposites, as if they do not exist within each other at all points.”

Raven found himself shrinking before her. “I- I don’t…”

She stared into his eyes, examining him, shooting straight through to the core of his being – Raven felt the icy chill down his spine as solid proof that she had powers of observation he could never hope to even begin to comprehend.

“I understand,” she hummed. “You’re not scared… you’re asking for… Hmm.”

She settled back onto her heels – Raven hadn’t realised that she had risen to the tips of her toes. “I saw nothing that I can remember.” She said solemnly, but with peace. “I don’t think the experience of an immortal soul can be understood by something so limited as a body. And keep in mind, it’s not that there was nothing, it’s that I remember nothing.”

Raven was stunned – suddenly, he felt a hand clap his shoulder. Dame Isadora was there, her silver-gauntleted hand firm but not hostile. “Just checking on you, Lady Ninian. Is everything okay? Is the big mean blackbird giving you trouble?”

Ninian laughed in response as she stepped forward and gingerly took the arm Isadora offered for her to balance on. “No, Isadora, that’s fine – he was just asking me something for his muse. I do need to go to the bathroom, however, and I was wondering if you would-”

“Wait!” Raven requested before he could stop himself, his arm reaching out for her, though he did not know why. The dancer had stopped even before he did so, as if she were expecting the movement.

“It won’t matter to him that you don’t have an answer,” she stated, her face visible to him in profile as she craned her neck briefly. “What he will appreciate is that you sought one.”

And with that, the taller woman supported the cerulean beauty as she gingerly stepped towards the exit of the dining hall.

“Ray?” came Lucius’ voice from behind him, sounding distant as if Raven was hearing it through a haze. “Raymond, I’ve been looking for you… wait, was that Ninian?” the monk looked from him, to her, and back again. “What on earth were you two talking about?”

\--

While this was going on, Lyn conversed in a nearby hallway with Lord Melville. The fair-headed lordling was an animated man, gesticulating wildly about minor concepts and going off on tangents at the slightest of opportunities.

“You see, milady, though it is landlocked between Thria and Ryerde, Worde possesses numerous exports of value. We are the region’s greatest servers of cattle, and among Lycia our leatherworkers are the finest.” He said this in a deeply invested way, though unbeknownst to him, Lyn’s attention was waning.

“Our councillors do keep me updated on the region, Lord Melville.” Lyn stated firmly. “What I can’t see is exactly why you’ve requested this meeting.”

“Ah, of course,” Melville admitted, before pausing to seemingly flick through several rehearsed talking points for the right answer. “I was going to suggest a trade deal between our two lands.”

“A trade deal with us? You’ll need to convince me,” Lyn spoke decisively. “Any trade deal between us has to cross Lycia’s central river and go through Laus, and while Lord Erik would be willing to bend over backwards for me right now due to his father’s actions, it’s still quite the task. Why now?”

“Ah, I’m afraid that you’ve cut me to the quick, milady.” He sighed theatrically. “You see, my father is sick. Whether or not the stubborn old goat wants to admit it, he’s about to die, and my brother Ranward is the favourite to inherit the throne. Now he may be more popular, but I can be more accomplished overnight by bringing them a trade deal of this kind.”

“Is he older than you? Will not the ascension be decided by blood?” Lyn inquired.

“He and I are twins,” Melville explained. “Minutes apart we were born, and so when my father grew ill he assembled a council to vote on who would make a better Marquess. They have promised to vote fairly on the matter.”

“I see,” Lyndis said, though she remained suspicious of the offer. “What would be in it for me? That’s not an easy road across the water, and Marquess Laus’ bookkeepers won’t let him feel guilty forever when there’s such a killing to be made on our use of his roads.”

Melville had just opened his mouth to respond when suddenly a third body was upon them. The purple coils of great wavy hair made her identifiable at a glance; it was Florina, beaming and happy, and – it struck Lyn – _confident_. The purple apparition’s genuine ebullience in that moment came not from being protected, but in being the protector.

“Lyn!” Florina cried, and flung out her hand in enticing offer. “You have to come with me! Sain needs us in the hall!”

Whether or not she realised it, Lyn felt her heart flutter, and the subsequent rush of heat to the forefront of her face made body and heart concur. She instinctively and immediately plunged her hand into Florina’s, whose fingers closed and squeezed as if there was a danger of Lyn vanishing into thin air. Then, the knight turned and led the charge out, running back in the direction of the dining hall and leading Lyn, who was unable to resist giggling happily as she was commanded by this new and improved creature of passion.

“What are you doing?” Lord Melville cried impetuously, immediately losing his patience. “This is a private meeting, knight!”

“I’m sorry, Lord Melville!” Lyn yelled out as they were already several feet down the hallway. “We’ll finish this talk later!” She then gave in, pivoting and running to keep pace with her Dame in white.

Left behind, Melville’s face was scrunched in impatience. “Damned savage,” he muttered under his breath. “I was so close…”

\--

“You doomed her. You know that, right?”

Mark’s question persisted in the stale air between him and Eliwood for some time.

“I mean… you heard what Nils said before he crossed over. The very air in Elibe has changed. The magic that used to be able to sustain them is gone, for the most part. She’ll die.”

Eliwood’s anger seemed to have turned to peaceful sadness of a sort, his breathing pensive and thoughtful in the strained silence. “Ninian and I… we’ve talked about it at length.” He said simply.

“And?”

“And I thought of nothing else for two years other than the crime against her that I had committed by allowing her to stay.”

Mark was shocked by this answer. The Eliwood he’d built up in his mind over the last four years was a stubborn and ignorant man blind to his actions, a young fool for whom the pursuit of romantic sentiment eclipsed even empathy, much less objectivity.

“I was crippled by myself for a long time. Many interpreted it as grieving for my father, and of course they were right… however, as it began to dawn on me that I’d also condemned the love of my life to a death well before my own all over again, I…” He looked at his hands, and Mark’s mind recognised the image – flashing back to a distraught boy who had just cut down a dragon. A dragon that had turned out to be the woman he loved. “I resolved that I would kill myself not long after she died, whenever that was. Abdicate Pherae to Hector. It only seemed right. There was no Nergal and no Durandal to lay the blame on this time. This one was entirely my fault.”

“Eliwood, I… I had no idea…” The Tactician’s shocked voice was sympathy in its purest form.

“It was Ninian who came to me,” the man continued. “Her powers may be weakening, but ever since she moved into our home in Pherae she has been gaining confidence in excess and learning so much about people… in many ways she’s stronger than she’s ever been. She helped me… mend.”

“That’s… I never thought... Are you okay?” Mark slumped back into a seated position once more.

“I remember the night she first made me feel hope again,” Eliwood breathed. “The night she convinced me that I have more to live for than just her and the prophecy of a dying man.” He wiped a stray tear from his eye and started digging through his pockets for a kerchief as he sniffed back further droplets, not having realised that he’d started crying.

“We spent the next two years learning how to love all over again, both ourselves and each other. And then, when we felt so much for each other we just weren’t enough to contain it anymore, we finally decided to make good on our promise to the world,” he turned his head to face Mark, “and you. Not long after, she was pregnant with our Roy. The boy you named.”

“Do you know how long she has?”

Eliwood shook his head. “She shows no signs of slowing just yet, but… well, as she says to me, a dance isn’t beautiful because it goes on.”

They were silent in the room for a long time, many minutes passing into oblivion between them as dusty death hung in the candlelight. Then, Eliwood rose to his feet, eyes fixated on a painting that had been stashed against the wall.

“Is that…?” he pondered, sliding it out from the crevice of the two other paintings it was wedged between. He held the canvas before him, examining it. “Yep. _The Scourge of Elibe_. By the Saint, it’s a genuine one, too.”

Mark turned his gaze to the painting, though he already knew of the famous work – and sure enough, this one had the signature of both the original artist and one of his assistants, who had doubtless slaved to produce the recreation for some lord or another.

“Did you know,” Eliwood queried, “that the motif of an icy, blue-haired woman with a dragon exists commonly enough in post-Scouring art that there’s an area of study dedicated to it in Etruria?”

“I didn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me,” Mark scoffed. “Ninian and Nils wandered for centuries, being driven out of place after place, creating folk legends… did you know that?”

“Of course,” Eliwood sighed, surprising the Tactician. “Ninian and I are _married_ , Mark. There are no secrets between us. I bet you never considered that this painting doesn’t depict Ninian, but her mother Aenir – the dragon who loved man.”

“What does that make you? The man who loved dragon? The man who ignored fate?”

“The truth is, I wrestled with those sorrows about prophecy and fate for a long time,” the nobleman spoke through his hurt, leaning the painting back against the wall and sinking down beside his friend once more. “I thought about acting, too. I could be the greatest Marquess that Pherae ever sees, the one who took action to save Lycia. I could try to end that ‘dark star over Bern’ before it ever rises – I could rally Hector tomorrow to get Ostia, the rest of Lycia, and likely Etruria also to march on Bern and nip that threat in the bud.” He shook his head resignedly. “I’d probably save a lot of lives, too. We’d have soldiers in all territories in a month, and that little prince Zephiel would be signing the armistice within a year. But I won’t.”

“Why not?” Mark asked, now hanging by his every word. “I’d help. Lyn would help. You know that.”

“I do,” he breathed. “But I won’t. Because that would mean war. More storms and strife. It would mean I’d have to draw _that_ damned sword again. Even if only for a month, a year, I wouldn’t want to do that to her. Not after all she’s done for me.” His gloved hand reached past his mantle and shirt collar, withdrawing a silver necklace with a cerulean gemstone inlaid. It was a jewel that Mark did not recognise, but quickly realised its shimmering significance – his jaw dropped as he realised that Ninian had trusted Eliwood with her Dragonstone.

“Because you’re right,” Eliwood continued, “and always have been right. I don’t deserve her, I never have, and it wasn’t right for me to take her hand in marriage. But… but I think I make her happy, and for someone who has suffered years, centuries of sadness…! I wouldn’t want to delay her even a second of happiness, if there is happiness to be had here and now.”

There was another long silence as Mark considered the man’s words. Eliwood silently placed the necklace back into his garb, feeling the warm weight of it as it leaned against his heart. Ultimately, however, Mark could find no appropriate response, and so changed the subject, which was becoming a running theme of the evening’s revelations.

“I’m here because Florina loves Lyn,” the strategist confessed. “Florina was worried about courtiers like that Lord Melville sweeping her away. She doesn’t know how she’ll convince Lyn without any offer of an heir or a marriage, but regardless of all that those hair-brained Caelin knights were gonna try anyway.”

Eliwood laughed at this reveal, appreciation for the situation clear on his face. “Melville?” The lord scoffed. “Wonder if he’s trying that crock of a trade deal on her. Tried it on every lord in Lycia he could before Hector put out that it would send any state that tried it bankrupt within a year. He’s probably relying on Lyn being uninformed about it,” he theorised this somewhere between concern and bemusement, before shrugging. “But I trust her to cut through the chaff. You, though. You just couldn’t resist, could you?” Eliwood managed to chuckle weakly. “Bet you made a big show of being the reluctant saviour and everything.”

Mark remained tellingly silent on that front, but continued. “I just wanted to help them for once. Do a bit of good. Back then, when we were all together, it was no secret that there was a very dear and tender love there… maybe it’s my way of keeping those memories alive. Protect that memory, that feeling. Enshrine it. Make a difference.”

“Well,” Eliwood now thought in tandem. “The biggest advantage that Florina has is that Lyn already loves her in kind. She just needs to do something to shatter that protective feeling Lyn just can’t seem to drop.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Eliwood shot back. “I won’t say you should’ve been there, because at that point you and I were… strained, but… Ninian and I’s wedding. Lyn blew off courtiers left, right and centre and danced with no-one but Florina all night. Well, Hector and I once each for old times’ sake, and after enough rice wine she prowled the hallways yelling for you to come out and reveal yourself, but apart from that, no-one but Florina.”

Mark smiled at a memory he hadn’t been privy to. “I’ve… I’ve missed out on a lot of happy times in the last five years, haven’t I?”

“You’ve missed a bit, but it’s not too late to start participating. After all, happiness and sadness are just day and night,” Eliwood insisted. “One follows the other, like clockwork.”

“Pfft. You always were naïve.”

“And you always were a cynical little shit.”

Mark swung around, shocked. He’d never heard Eliwood swear before, and as such the word was as lightning in the air. Eliwood was staring at him with the uniquely smug satisfaction that belonged to a man who could not be swayed from his convictions. The lord now stood, stretching with a loud sigh and brushing himself off, letting his cape flow once again behind him.

“Sometimes people leave us when the battle is half-done,” he said, approaching Mark and pulling him into a brief, but meaningful, embrace. “I used to be terrified by that… but not as much anymore. After all, my love is living proof that no-one is ever truly gone.”

He turned to the door and opened it, the comparatively blinding light of the hallway stretching into the room in a single long shaft, illuminating Eliwood completely in its superb whiteness. He threw a last, wondrous smile at the tactician as he said:

“Don’t be so eager to get it right every time, Mark. Sometimes, there are mistakes worth honouring.”

And with that, he was gone, and Mark was left alone in the musty dim candlelight.

\--

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

The eager crowd of nobles, soldiers, and friends roared in approval as, back in the main hall, Sain stood on top of a thick oak table that had been long cleared of all cutlery, delicate dinnerware replaced with heavy wooden tankards, and – most importantly – massive barrels of wines and ales lined up along the length of the counter. Beside the green knight stood Lyn and Florina, holding each other tight so as not to fall off the table, and Marquess Hausen stood beneath them, the old man holding a great goblet while watching with a delighted smile on his face. Sain continued to work the crowd.

“A round of applause,” he suggested, “for the spectacular efforts of Castle Caelin’s kitchen and waiting staff!”

Dutifully, the due appreciation was directed at the mentioned workers, who had lined up alongside the wall to see the party through for the night. They bowed graciously, doing their best to hide weary faces and postures only pretending to possess energy.

“Of course, the time has come to delight in revelry and drink!” Sain cried, to much murmuring agreement. “So, as the hosts – and winners of that most historic tourney – our very own Lady Lyndis and Dame Florina will crack the first barrel, beneath which the great Lord Hausen waits to show us all how it’s done!”

“You young people!” Hausen growled, loud enough for all to hear. “You just watch how we did it in old Lycia!” laughter ensued, and the smiling man looked up to his granddaughter. “When you’re ready, Lyn.”

The granddaughter nodded, and drew the Mani Katti from her side with a sharp metallic tone. She took Florina’s hands and delicately applied them to hers below the katana’s hilt. Their faces were inches apart as Lyn stabilised their position.

“On three,” Lyn whispered, and Florina nodded – they were close enough for her to feel Lyn’s breath on her cheek.

“One… two…”

Florina brought her arms up in concert with Lyn’s and, in one clean strike, brought down the sword on the central seal of the barrel. The razor steel lopped the thing clean off, sending a steady stream of smooth yellowed ale from the container – at which Lord Hausen moved with surprising grace to pool the drink in his tankard. There was not enough built-up pressure to fill the goblet entirely, so Hausen swung around as soon as the flow stopped and raised the cup.

“Here’s to my granddaughter!” He roared, and the crowd cheered in approval. He leaned back and, for several agonising seconds, drank down the bitter liquid, pouring it through his gullet with increasing difficulty but even stronger pride. At last he held the cup up, containing nothing but froth, at which the entire crowd burst into whooping, cheering applause.

He then signalled to Lyn wearily, who nodded and hopped down off the table. “Everyone!” she shouted. “The Marquess Caelin is retiring for the night. Let’s hear it for him!”

A last and loudest cheer rose up, and as Lyn and one of the councillors guided Hausen out of the room the partygoers behind swept in to begin filling their containers with the pungent, odorant liquids of red and white and yellow. Once they had cleared the hall and reached Hausen’s quarters, the Councillor excused himself, leaving the two Marquesses of Caelin alone.

“Thank you for convincing me to this, Lyn…” Hausen spoke sagely, leaning on the door to his bedroom.

“No, grandfather – thank you for agreeing to it.” Lyn was smiling, then bowed her head inwardly a little. “Look – I know you said it wasn’t a concern of yours, but I’m sorry again for my delay in taking a husband. There’s no excuse for my reluctance.” She was clearly embarrassed about the topic, as she squirmed on the spot bringing it up.

“Granddaughter, granddaughter…” Hausen gestured her back into his embrace with an inviting arm. “Your reluctance is its own excuse. To be perfectly honest, House Caelin has meant less and less to me every day since the world brought you back into my arms. Heirs, lineage… the man obsessed with all of that was laid to rest with your mother.”

Lyn looked up at him. “Grandfather? What are you…?”

Hausen looked at his beloved Lyn and ran his hand through her hair affectionately. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a long time,” he said. “Maybe I needed that mug of ale to work up the courage.” They shared a brief laugh, but Hausen continued. “Lyn, Madelyn’s gift to you was freedom. She abdicated her lineage here to love a man belonging to a culture that couldn’t be more different from us; so wild and so passionate in their priorities that her leaving just about started a war. The people of the plains do what they will… and that was the gift I believe she meant for you by raising you among them. It is that gift which I want to honour. You have humoured an old man, learned the ways of court, but… after I am gone… I am not concerned with what becomes of Caelin.”

“Grandfather…”

“For the first time in a generation, this is a Lycia I would not worry about leaving Caelin to.” The Marquess spoke seemingly just as much to himself as to Lyn. “Hector is an honest and just ruler. Erik is keen to avoid his father’s mistakes. And Eliwood, well… he is Eliwood.”

Lyn smiled, looking back in the direction of the feast-turned-party. “Yes,” she chuckled. “Yes he is. But grandfather, are you… are you sure?”

“We’ll discuss it more in the coming days, to be sure,” Hausen reassured her. “But my dear Lyn, I want you to live the life you want to. I want you to feel free to do what you will as she did, live for your own love as she did – whoever that may end up being – and have the freedom that she wanted so much for you to have.”

Tears had gathered in Lyndis’ eyes, and in a rush of emergent emotion the girl flew in to embrace her grandfather once more. The moment lasted, suspended in catharsis and the fulfilling of ancient promises for a few minutes until, with fresh words of love and appreciation, they wished each other a grateful goodnight and returned respectively to the worlds in which they yet had pressing duties: the waking world for Lyn, and the dreaming one for Hausen.

\--

Mark was upset. His plan had been falling apart since the duel – the conversation with Eliwood had convinced him, if nothing else, that precious time to bring Lyn and Florina together was quickly diminishing. He paced his way through the now-deserted kitchens, looking for something he could plant onto the scene to improve their chances of a romantic development – a dessert either of them was fond of, a stronger bottle of liquid courage, anything at all. In his desperation he flung open the doors to one of the sculleries, and in storming inside almost ran into two entangled bodies.

Raven had Lucius pinned against the wall, their faces pressed together in a deeply passionate kiss. Their lips were locked as the mercenary led the motion, the stronger man having one muscular arm wrapped around the effeminate acolyte’s waist and the other intertwined with Lucius’ own all the way down to their fingers. Their eyes were closed until they were alerted by the sound of the door opening, at the sound of which Lucius went wide-eyed with panic.

“M-Mark!” the monk stammered, breaking the contact and trying to compose himself, only deepening his shade of red in the process. The abashed look on his face was entirely too cute for a man in a habit.

Mark stood there, taking in this tableau with genuine delight. Validation and smug satisfaction now combined on his face to form the filthiest of shit-eating grins, as he sucked in air and declared loudly:

“I CALLED IT! YOU _KNOW_ I CALLED IT!”

Raven now started to blush, the man uncharacteristically embarrassed for a man usually so self-assured. “I… uh…”

“No no, don’t worry about me.” Mark assured them. “I was just looking for… well… I don’t know.” He hadn’t realised it yet, but through the discovery of this awkward moment, the tactician had borne witness to an act of love that would begin to turn the great and inscrutable gears of his mind. Perhaps sensing this, he told the lovers with a shake of his head, “I think it found it, though. You two enjoy yourselves.”

The man left these two lovers speechless as he quietly turned and, with a last chuckle and mumble of “called that shit,” closed the scullery door as he left. He then made his way back to the feasting hall, grinning like a validated fool all the way and, after putting his nightcap back on to disguise himself once more, entered the room.

He entered a world of noise and sloshing, of loud talk and even louder singing as rousing choruses, from well-known drinking songs to anachronistic marching tunes, were bandied about between parties. Among the scents Mark could smell the bitter, earthy beers that were common in every pub across Lycia, strong leathery red wines that promised intoxication by way of grape and velvet, and the sharp tang of white wines that were fruity, light, and sour by comparison. Walking past dancing couples and hushed conversations, Mark found his way over to a bench moved against the wall on which sat Wil and Kent, the former seeming all too happy to see the tactician approach.

“Oh, thank the Saint,” the archer complained. “Please don’t leave me again. He’s miserable company.”

Kent was drunk, exceedingly so. His eyelids were at half-mast and his entire body, from back to jaw, was slumped over in resignation. He held a strong leather wineskin in his hand, which Mark snatched away and briefly took in the scent of, before immediately recoiling in disgust.

“Of course he’s drunk,” Mark diagnosed. “He’s basically drinking pirate spit.” The drink was colourless and repugnant in its razorlike bite of chemical stench. It was an obscure spirit usually found in much harsher places than this, and as such it was no wonder that Kent was already compromised.

“He’s gonna pass out if he keeps drinking that filth.” Wil nodded in agreement.

“Good!” Kent bemoaned, his voice uneven and lacking any and all coherence of composition. “She’s not here, not for the feast… not for the drinksss… why stay awake?”

“Relax, Kent.” Mark said. “Wil, go get him some water, please – I’ll keep him upright and awake.”

Wil nodded and left the vermillion knight to Mark’s care. The strategist sat down beside the intoxicated soldier and gently let the man lean on his shoulder, drooling into his robe.

“C’mon, Kent. Stay with me.” Mark nagged, gently tapping Kent’s cheek with two fingers, causing the knight to rouse a little. “Jeez, you’re just as plastered as your arm is…”

“I swear I’m gonna sock anyone… keeping her from me.” Kent slurred angrily, his voice half muffled by the thick scholar’s cloth.

“I know you will, Kent. I know.”

Mark’s eyes settled on the party, watching Lyn re-enter the room and touch base with Eliwood and Ninian. He did his best to listen in – Lyn asked where Florina was, Eliwood and Ninian shared a giggle, and then explained that she was freshening up before coming back in to see Lyn. Mark silently cursed the Pheraen couple under his breath – they were being too obvious. Romantics are not made for secret-keeping.

It was at that moment that, like a loud and belligerent crow, the black-coated form of Lord Melville appeared again. He seemed to be a few drinks deep, and this time he wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Lady Lyndis,” he barked, as respectfully and evenly as he could. “We have business to conclude.”

Lyn had long since tired of this – whatever reluctance she had towards his suspicious trade deal to begin with had now been compounded a thousandfold by her grandfather’s intention to free Lyn from being tied down as Marquess of Caelin. Any future regent of this state she may have to select, in her mind, shouldn’t have to deal with the potential consequences of a long-term trade deal made under her watch.

“I’ll be back.” She excused herself from Eliwood and Lyn and walked over to the waiting man.

“Lord Melville,” she announced, keeping her voice level through her annoyance. “I regret to say that we cannot do business. Caelin is about to adopt a period of consolidation. I’m sorry.”

Melville felt all eyes on him, exposure seeping through the man’s nerves as he and Lyn talked in the centre of the room. “Please, follow me…” he ushered her over to the doorframe leading out into Castle Caelin’s doorways. She obliged with increasing frustration, but stopped dead at the doorway – she would not budge an inch more from her friends. The noblewoman folded her arms.

“I think you’re misunderstanding my offer and I,” The lord confessed, determined to have her hear him no matter where the talk might happen. “The trade deal is but one aspect of a movement which would unite our two countries in Lycia!”

“Our territories have a big fat river between them, Lord Melville, and the entire march of Laus. I fail to see the connection.”

Florina, at this moment walking back towards the dining hall and quite pleased with the elegance of her appearance, heard Lyn’s voice near the door as she approached. While she smiled at the very sound of it, she then stepped left and hugged the near wall with her back – she wanted her re-entrance to the party to be rather breathtaking. She waited, listening for when Lyn would disengage and thus allow Florina the chance to dazzle her.

“Don’t you see what I’m asking?” The man imbued all the husk into his voice that he could. “Lyndis of Caelin, I’m asking you to marry me.”

The blood of both girls ran cold.

“By uniting our territories through marriage,” Melville proposed, “we put pressure on the rest of Lycia to do business with us. We create a solid line, a combined market ruled in two places, a march spanning half of Lycia! Think about it!” He pleaded joyously to Lyn, and with each promise of sweet profit and power Florina’s heartbeat panicked anew and her eyes grew wider with worry.

“T-that is…” Lyn was flustered by the sudden proposal, disarmed by its imminence. “That’s…”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Florina saw Melville’s hand touch the soft skin of Lyn’s arm as his voice went into lower, silkier tones. “Just say yes…”

Florina couldn’t take it anymore – with an involuntary hiccup of impending tears she turned on her heel and began sprinting down the hallway, kicking off her long pearl heels angrily, the urge to flee ruling her entire being as she all but flew through the now hostile-seeming walls of Castle Caelin. Closed doors and sneering portraits blurred past her as she ran, taunting her with their assumed superiority as she imagined their cruel laughter chasing her down the corridors.

“Oh, shit,” Mark had sworn, recognising the sight of Florina’s panic instantly from his vantage point. He thrust both Kent’s mumbling form and his own cup of water into Wil’s arms, who took both suddenly but dutifully – “Put that glass into him too and keep him awake! I have to go – I’m sorry!” Mark commanded, then took off around the extremes of the room to try and get to the hallway without arousing attention.

Lyn, even more keenly, also had mantled that very sound in her psyche – and wheeled around to face the hallway, seeing Florina’s form running away, retreating down Castle Caelin’s long halls. Lyn panicked, and turned to run after her, before Melville’s hand grabbed her wrist in a sudden reversal of momentum that made her arm twist and her skin prickle with anger. Lyn was jerked back, which saw her anger spiral instantly into cold fury.

“Hands off, you brute!” She reared up with her free hand and cuffed the man across the face with the back of it, the fleshy impact resounding for metres around, followed by the shocked gasping of any other guests who witnessed it. Melville was forced to let go and staggered backwards from the hit, glaring at Lyn in shocked humiliation.

“I refuse your offer!” She stated. She turned to try and follow Florina, but couldn’t resist having the last word. “And I look forward to doing business with Marquess Ranward!” With that, she started running down the hallway.

Melville wiped away the biting, iron-tasting blood that had crept into his mouth with his sleeve, leaving a red blotch on its frilled cuffs as he cast a cold gaze at any guests of the party still looking at him. He located his retainer in the crowd, the soft-faced girl chatting amiably to a Caelin knight decked in green, and shook her to his attention suddenly. She seemed shocked by his sudden aggression; but she could not disobey, so she swallowed her pride and fell in line. Though, she hesitated a moment in following Melville, as his eyes held a new and spiteful gleaming in them.

“You are to do everything I’m about to order you to,” he growled. “First, fetch me my crossbow.”

\--

The door to the stables flung open. Florina rushed inside, hot tears streaming down from her face, her heart overflowing with embarrassment and sorrow. She had taken the most direct route down to the grounds, fleeing here without delay. She screamed at herself inwardly as her moistened eyes stung in the cool night air, going over her failures again _ad infinatum_ : she didn’t know why she’d even thought it was possible.

“Stupid Florina!” She cursed herself as she trudged through the ankle-high mess of hay on the floor to approach the stall of her Pegasus, Huey. The beast whinnied affectionately as she approached, but she just kept crying, teeth clenched in humiliation. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” She turned to open the door and bring the winged horse out, but the motion jammed and the hinge was unmoved – she noticed a string of three heavy locks wrapped around the latch, preventing access.

Florina, in her confusion, stared at the locks, before quickly that turned to renewed desperation and embarrassment – who would do this? Who would deny her even her ability to leave? Was this Mark’s doing? The thoughts raced through her head as she furiously grabbed the locks with both hands and, lacking a better solution, violently shook and pulled them as though it would make any difference. She did this angrily for a few seconds, smashing at the padlocks with flesh and fingernail in desperate sorrow before, with a loud, sharp, sad cry she hit the door with her balled fist and resigned into it.

She sobbed openly, existential hopelessness being all that she felt in that helpless moment. Tears flowed freely and unrestrained, dropping in fat salty globules into her dress, making the spaces where the droplets fell a shade darker in contemplative sorrow. It was only as she opened her reddened eyes, sniffing and weeping, that she noticed a minute scrap of paper that had fallen, either from the door or the lock as she raged at them. She delicately caught it with her gloved hand as it lazily drifted towards the ground, and as she brought the cutting up to inspect with her keen eyes she noticed a familiar black scrawling on its folded interior; she sniffed back a fresh round of tears, then unfurled the tiny note to read it.

_Please don’t go.  
-Lyn_

Florina slumped to the ground, not even caring that the unblemished white of her prized dress now mingled with the hay and dust that littered the stable floor. She cradled her head in her hands.

“She knows me too well,” she said out loud. “She’s a lord who prepares.”

She looked back up at the locks, noticing new things about them. They were cold, massive lumps of steel that were probably unbreakable to anything short of a ballista-bolt shot with pinpoint accuracy. They were definitely not the standard locks of the stables – they were ornately decorated, old enough to be considered a museum piece, and they had almost definitely been dug out from somewhere in Castle Caelin’s reliquary expressly for this purpose.

“She knew at some point I’d try to run…” she fumed, every word dripping with sad self-loathing as she sniffed down her tears. “Well, I always do…”

She looked up from her seat even further, past the locks to find her Pegasus, pristine white coat shimmering even in dim candlelight, staring quizzically down at her. Its deep black eyes were intrigued by this unusual behaviour.

“Well, Huey, it means that she cares, right?” She didn’t know why she expected a response, but it didn’t arrive. She continued thinking out loud instead. “Alright think, Florina. What went wrong? Well, apart from you having no titles, no land, no prospects, no… thing that can give her an heir.” She shook her head and frantically rubbed her face, trying to dry it of tears.

But why had she run? Lyn wasn’t about to accept Melville’s offer. She knew that now; the idea of that seemed unthinkable to the Florina now sitting here crying into her own gown, but just the possibility had made her run from the castle as though her very life had been endangered. Her flight from Lyn had been instinctive... Why?

“Maybe I’m scared, Huey,” she confessed to the beast. “If I confess, and she doesn’t feel the same, I lose her. When that looks like a possibility, it’s… it’s much easier just to run.”

She remained hunched over in the hay at this conclusion for nearly a minute, nothing but muted sniffing and the deep silence of furious thought to break the wind of the night.

“But I want her,” she pined. “I _need_ her, there’s so much at stake for her, but my stakes are higher – I’ve no way to live without her!” She agonised to herself, rising to her feet and facing the locks that now revealed to her her own hamartia. She cut down the complexities in her mind, distilling what she knew of Lyn’s feelings for her down only to stated, self-evident truths.

“She wants me to stay,” she finalised to herself. “She’s made this my home.”

To her pounding heart, those two simple facts said much of Lyn’s love. From that point, one realisation, and one only, was clear to Florina in her mind.

She nodded. “This is my stand. It’s now or it’s never.”

“That’s my girl.” The new voice gave Florina cause to whirl around and face its source – only to see Mark, standing in the open door to the stables. He was jingling a great iron ring being weighed down by official and stately-looking keys of varying lengths and thicknesses.

“Mark!” she breathed in relief, identifying the man. “How long have you…”

“Enough. Just long enough.” He approached, bringing up the first of the metal implements. “If you’d stayed determined to leave, I was going to put these keys right back where I found them. But seeing as you’re blessing us with your continued presence…”

He matched the first key to the first lock and twisted it inside, feeling the machine quickly give way. “Hey, first try!” He celebrated. “That’s good luck.”

Florina leaned against the wall next to Huey’s head protruding from the stall, and with tentative arms hugged herself as she waited. As Mark started trying keys on the second lock, she could no longer resist asking. “How much of this was planned? I’m… I’m so sorry. I must have failed so many tests by now….”

There was a click as the second lock came free. “No,” “Mark admitted. “My plan really fell apart ages ago. I’ve been completely unable to affect a single outcome for hours now, intended or not. I guess I just thought it was bound for success because it was my plan. Sounds arrogant, I know.”

“So… do you think it’s going to fail?” Florina dared asking.

“Victory is still possible,” the analytical tone and cadence of the expert tactician came out, the man sounding much more like a scholarly lecturer than a would-be matchmaker. “The placement of the units is far from optimal, but we’ve faced worse odds.”

“So, how do I help? Tell me how to win.”

Mark remained silent for a moment, cursing under his breath as the third lock refused a fifth key. When he spoke at last, it seemed unrelated to Florina’s predicament. “Would you believe I caught Raven and Lucius kissing in the scullery?”

“Really?” Florina asked, unsurprised by the news. “That’s… I’m happy for them.”

“Yeah, me too,” Mark agreed. “I actually only found them because I was searching for something, anything which would tip the odds a little more in your favour. Finding them was a bit of a shock, but really a pleasant surprise.”

“…Did you find anything?” Florina couldn’t help but ask.

“I did!” Mark confirmed. “I found them, teaching me something.” He turned to the last key on the ring and, with an impatient shifting of his kneeled body, inserted it. “Sometimes you just have to trust your units to do what feels right.”

At last, the mechanism of the third and final lock gave out to the right key, and with a satisfied smirk Mark pulled the wire free from the latch, letting the three locks fall to the floor and hit the ground with a heavy clatter.

Mark swung the door open, and Huey automatically trotted towards Florina with great gentleness and nuzzled the face of his owner affectionately. Florina smiled, and placed her hands on the horse’s head just before Mark put his hand on her shoulder. It was nearly silent now, only the cold ambience of night and the dim whistle of distant winds as they walked Huey out into the open air. Mark said his last.

“It’s all you now, Florina.”

The words filled her with hope, and she welled with tears again. “Thank you, Mark,” she breathed, “For everything.”

“Hey, hey,” Mark reassured her, wiping the tears from her eyes with his thumb before they could fall. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do for you since the day I met you.” His soft smile turned into an encouraging grin. “And besides, it all gets easier after you’ve socked Sain in the face.”

She laughed as she swung her leg over the Pegasus’ back in a motion so well-rehearsed that it was second nature, and with a single bold cry of encouragement the flier was off – white wings stretching into the night sky as brave Dame Florina took flight. Eager to see the story through, Mark squinted to try and see through any windows of the castle he could – sure enough, there was Lyn, making her way with haste down to the south entrance to the grounds, where Florina had to be headed to in turn. However, the sight was soured – slinking behind, but following Lyn’s every move, was Lord Melville.

Mark cursed himself and closed his eyes to think; there had to be something he could do to close this loose end. Not anticipating someone like this dogged suitor being this persistent had been his greatest error of the night, and as he listened to the skyward whinnying of the Pegasi he wracked his brain.

Wait, he thought. That plural. Pegasi?

Mark’s eyes darted skyward and there, far in the distance to the point they were still but pinpricks of white on a dark canvas, were multiple riders. Four were approaching from the north, still some minutes out but headed towards Castle Caelin at full pelt.

Mark realised with a jolt that it was the Ilian delegation headed by Fiora. His mind began to race as it conceived an idea, a desperate throw of a manoeuvre – the chances of its working were astronomically low, but Mark faced the increasingly uncomfortable realisation that it was the only chance he had. He decided to take it.

“Hey! You! Noble girl!” Mark found the first passerby he could and hailed her down, jogging as fast his restrictive robe would allow in order to catch her before she went inside.

“Hunh?” She stopped and watched him approach with a bemused expression of faint curiosity, and yet she stared through him with such clarity it was as though his very existence was beneath her. “I aint no noble girl,” she spoke in a country accent. “I’m a merchant.”

“Yes, yes,” Mark panted, straightening to look at her. She was unusually vibrantly dressed for a self-proclaimed merchant – she was done up in the brightest blood-red doublet he could possibly imagine, and more shockingly it matched her piercing eyes and fierce crimson hair, done up in a high ponytail. Indeed, only now that he had bothered to look did Mark notice how strange a picture she presented. “I’m with the host party,” he lied out of need. “I need you to get a message to Sirs Wil and Kent of Caelin.”

“Alright,” she said, “but it’ll cost you.”

“What?” Mark hadn’t been expecting the resistance, keenly aware that he was running out of seconds.

“You ‘eard me. You want them sirs told, you gotta give me some gold.”

Mark sighed. “Fine.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a small pocket-bag full of coins. He plopped it into her hand.

She didn’t budge an inch, keeping her hand outstretched.

Mark gave a guttural growl of displeasure as he reached into his robe again and produced his second and final bag of pieces. He placed it next to the first. “All I got,” He confessed.

The scarlet girl smiled and accepted the bags, seemingly satisfied. Something about her smile seemed familiar to him.

“Alright, mister. What’s the message? You done paid for my services.”

“Tell them that the Ilian delegates have arrived and are at the South entrance,” Mark spoke deliberately. “And the very drunk man, make sure to tell him clearly that Fiora is here.”

“Ilians, Fiora. Got it.” She smiled sweetly. “Anything else?”

Mark couldn’t shake the feeling. “Have… have we met before?”

The girl placed her forefinger to her chin and smiled an enigmatic expression. “Maybe!” she suggested, before shrugging and taking off into the castle to do her duty, leaving Mark to wonder briefly – before he found the answers too hard to come by and dismissed the thought, choosing instead to start his trek around to the South entrance of the castle.

It was out of his hands now – enemy phase.

\--

Lyn finally breached the threshold of the South entrance, pelting out onto the grounds. She looked around the dark grasses, before her eyes instinctively went to air – and, sure enough, saw Huey’s form soaring up above her. She cupped her hands around her mouth to funnel the sound, and cried Florina’s name with the volume of urgency. She watched it circle a moment more before calling out to her vassal again, Lyn’s heart starting to pound with nervous worry.

Suddenly the Pegasus dipped, its nimble wings carving the air as it began a soft, swirling descent. Lyn, well used to having to estimate where the noble animal would land, nimbly crossed the grass out to where she knew it would touch down – and was there just as its hooves met soil. Lyn straightened up and stood her ground, looking up at her dear friend with soft eyes.

“Hey,” the plainswoman said sweetly. “You stayed.”

The slight wind of the open air ruffled Florina’s amethyst curls gently. “I did,” she said. “For you.”

Lyn smiled as she exhaled in relief, then became attentive as she suddenly realised a hole of logic in the current situation. “How did… how did you get Huey out of the stables?”

Florina’s mind raced for a counterfeit answer. “Lockpick!” she blurted out, voice an octave too high. “M-Matthew taught me well.”

“I worry we all learned a thing or two from his fast fingers,” Lyn concurred, seeming satisfied with the explanation. “Now, will you be coming back inside? The band was just setting up as you left,” she held out her hand for Florina to get down. “You and I still have dancing to tick off. I’ll lead.”

Florina swallowed, drawing out the coffers of her courage to mantle the coming words. “Actually, Lyn,” she said, eyes burning bright with life, and love – “I’d rather you let me lead for a change.” She held her hand out just shy of Lyn’s in equal offer.

Lyn looked at the gesture, from the beckoning hand to Florina’s crystalline eyes, wide with pleading and passion, and back again. Then, feeling a blossoming swell in her breast and an unusual heat in her face, Lyn grabbed hold of Florina’s hand, dug one foot behind hers in the Pegasus’ leather stirrup and lithely clambered aboard behind her.

“Then lead, beautiful Florina.” Lyn cooed.

Florina’s own heart swelled now, and she followed its ascension – directing Huey into the air with a gentle nudge. Lyn’s arms wrapped both comfortingly and practically around the rider girl’s body, clinging to it with an intimacy beyond their usual contact.

They had not gone ten feet off the ground, however, when a very unwelcome voice indeed shouted out at them from the dark ground.

“HOLD IT THERE!”

Lord Melville was rooted to a spot in the grass, wild eyes visible in the light spilling out from the castle entrance. He looked crazed, anger and desperation forming a vicious cocktail in his heart as he shook slightly in a dangerous combination of discomfort and fear. To complete the terror of the image, in his hands there was a wooden crossbow, an expensive-looking thing that was decorated in tasteless, tactless carvings that said entirely too much about its owner. Nonetheless, the thing was all too threatening as its deadly bolt was held motionless in the sling, pulled taut and prepared to pierce with impunity. Florina – her joy instantly melting to worry – obeyed reluctantly, keeping the Pegasus’ wings flapping in place at a hover.

“You hold, bandit!” he directed this at Florina, his equal parts hatred and sarcasm. “I’m going to save the Lady Lyndis from being kidnapped by this rogue who stole a Pegasus!”

“Stand aside, Lord Melville!” Lyn ordered, all business by contrast. “This woman is my friend, and we have nothing more to discuss!”

“Oh, but we do.” The man took a step forward, keeping his aim firmly centred on the horse’s form. “I can deal with rejection, Lady Lyndis…”

“Clearly not,” Lyn seethed under her breath, then rose her voice. “I will not be threatened, you cur! Drop that bow before I cut you down!”

“…But what I need is that trade deal!” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her, the spraying spittle flying from his mouth visible even in the scattered light of evening. “And until I have your word, then my bow stays up! And there’s no way you could prosecute a lord of my standing for what, of course, would be an unfortunate mistake!”

“You don’t happen to have a javelin down that dress, do you?” Lyn asked Florina in a whisper. “You’d outdraw him, easily.”

“I-I don’t…” Florina murmured back, voice wavering with fear. “What do we do?”

Lyn was unable to respond. Melville shifted uneasily below.

“You’ve got ten seconds to say you agree and come down slowly before I shoot!” He cried.

“We have to obey, Florina.” Lyn resigned.

“Ten!”

“But, Lyn…”

“Nine!”

“I will not have Huey’s life, and your happiness sacrificed for my pride. Take us down.”

“Eight!”

“Lyn…”

“Seven!”

“FIORAAAAAA!”

The new voice made them all jump, and Lyn immediately counted their blessings that Melville had not fired his shot out of sheer panic. Behind them, emerging from the south entrance in a slow shuffle of monstrous sluggishness, was a familiar knight. His face was all but drooped in consumed drunkenness and his image was anything but heroic, but there, as a flash of vermillion in the doorway, was none other than Kent staggering his way outside. Wil was following behind, the archer dutifully making sure the cavalier was not staggering into torch fires or priceless paintings. He was unable to stop Kent, however, from entering into the altercation waiting outside; after all, the knight was bewitched as he looked up at Huey, pointing with delirious happiness on his face as he yelled back to Wil.

“It’s Fiora! My love!” He celebrated to himself and anyone who would listen as he held up both of his arms in reverence of the presence of the winged horse.

“Hold right there, knight!” Melville had swung around and had the crossbow pointed at the two newcomers, the weapon visibly shaking in his hands as he lost control of the situation. “Go back inside right now, before I shoot. This doesn’t concern you!”

“Huh?” Kent took in the situation as best as his heavily burdened mind could, not noticing in the slightest that Wil had braced himself in resigned readiness – at this distance, the bolt of the crossbow would mean instant death. This fact, however, did not deter the inebriated Kent. “Are you… are you threatening my Fiora?” He slurred as he staggered around, then started advancing on Melville. “This guy’s dead,” he shouted. “He’s dead, Wil!”

“N-not another step!” Melville cried, backing up as this armoured drunkard drew closer.

Kent staggered to the side just as Melville pulled the trigger out of sheer panic; the bolt slung from its forced rest at great speed, whizzing past Kent’s shoulder, and embedding itself harmlessly into the stone bulkhead of the castle with a quick puff of concrete. Now frantic, Melville produced another bolt from his coat, as well as a lever to try and reload the bow, but all too soon Kent’s swaying mass was upon him – and with a single weighted swing from the knight’s resin wrist cast he dispatched the weapon from the suitor’s hands, blasting it free and having it land some metres away.

“Do you know who I am?” the prince demanded. “I am-”

“Some shit on my boot!” Ken slurred in a roar, trying to keep his feet firmly anchored to the ground as he reared up, rotated his shoulder exactly three times in a blur, and with a sickening crack slammed his arm into the Lord’s face; it twisted and distended dramatically as the still-drying cast cracked on impact and went flying in fragments from Kent’s wrist. Lord Melville’s agony was immediately apparent as he crumpled to the ground crying, long wails of pain snaking their way through the night.

“FIORAAAAAA!” It was all Kent cared about, the knight accidentally stumbling over Melville’s writhing form as he tried to get closer to Huey.

“It-it’s just us, Kent!” Lyn clarified as she and Florina emerged from the braced position they had assumed since they heard the crossbow fire. Their heartbeats were still slowing from the pounding crescendo they had reached. “We can’t thank you enough!”

“Ah… Lyn…” he stammered, waving drunkenly. “Is no problem. I heard… I heard that Fiora was here?”

Lyn looked back towards the north; there, one could make out even the intricate markings that labelled the Pegasus Knights of Ilia, the delegation seconds away at most. They had clearly noticed the commotion on this side of the grounds, as they had completely ignored the more obvious entries to Castle Caelin and come around to the southern entrance.

Leading the pack, Fiora clearly felt close enough to close the distance with a yell, as her distinctly upperclass voice rang out. “What on Earth was that? Is that you, Florina?”

“Hello, sister!” Florina called out, laughing with tears in her eyes as her frenzied fear was replaced by blessed relief. “Welcome to the party!”

The aquamarine-haired girl dipped her Pegasus and pulled up alongside them, taking in the sight of the wrecked nobleman below. “Is this really what happens when I’m late to a celebration?” she asked, before turning and bowing to her Sacaen host. “Good to see you, Lyndis.”

“You too, Fiora.” Lyn said with a smile. “We’ll talk later – Florina here was just about to lead me in a dance. Could you please help Wil get him inside?”

“Who’s ‘him’?” Fiora asked with a sense of dread.

“FIORAAAAAAAA! It is you!” Kent’s shouting repeated itself as, with a laugh, Florina directed her Pegasus upwards into the night sky. The conversation trailed off as they ascended:

“Eh? Kent, you’re drunk! Get a hold of yourself!”

“Fiora… I’m so happy… you’re finally here…”

“Wil, hold him back! He’ll get kicked by my horse!”

“Good! He could use the wake up!”

\--

Far above even the castle’s topmost turrets and battlements, Lyn held onto Florina tightly as they, by light of the moon, examined all they could. Everything was visible to them; from the white celestial body itself as it hung in the sky, fat and bright, to the stars above and below them – both the vast constellations of the heavens, and the thousands of scattered lights that made the streets and houses of Caelin’s castle city. Far to the north, the farthest outposts of the silvery plains called, beckoning to Lyn with their expanse.

“It’s beautiful…” Lyn marvelled. “Why don’t we fly at night more often?”

“Well,” Florina grew quiet. “M-maybe we could.”

“Florina?”

Florina turned in her seat to gaze into Lyn’s eyes, and both women wondered in that moment how it was possible that, in all the world, all the riches and wonders able to be desired could be settled in just a pair of eyes, nothing more.

“Lyn… I love you. I really do.” Florina confessed, then instinctively politely bowed her head as though it were an appeal.

Lyn’s tinged pink cheeks went a shade scarlet, and her smile flooded with relief and clarity. “Oh, Florina,” she said, rising her hand to lift Florina’s chin and bring it level to her own. “I know.”

She closed the distance between them, their lips making contact in white light. And there, suspended in the night air, the kiss achieved transcendence – its completeness and its wondrousness rippling out from it through time, the essence of life itself marvelling at the motion.  Of course, to Lyn and Florina, all they could feel was a pair of heartbeats, both close to bursting, and the delicate lips of the woman they loved. When finally they broke contact, it was Lyn who leaned in and took Florina in her arms, not out of protectiveness, but of sheer adoration.

“I love you too,” the plainswoman chimed. “And nothing else could be offered – not land, nor gold, nor titles…” she breathed in Florina’s scent, and felt a rogue tear escape as her brain correctly identified the lavender smell as everything she wanted. “I want you,” she breathed. “Just you, nothing but you – as you are, were, and will be. Years and years of you. Now until the last sunset.”

Florina started to cry, a different kind of tear – there was no fear here, no sorrow, and no embarrassment. Just joy. All-consuming, undiluted, and pure. Florina’s heart began to race, and as she began to realise that the happiness she had wished for for so many years had come to her, an idea entered her head. “Am I still leading this dance?” she asked her newfound lover through the joyous liquid that made its way down her face.

“Yes, silly,” Lyn laughed, her own eyes lined with delighted tears. “Of course!”

Florina turned back to face Huey’s head, in order to best guide the Pegasus. “Then hold on tight!” She directed the Pegasus down – steep down. Huey obliged, going into a nosedive which accelerated them straight towards the Castle at an incredible speed.

The next day, many of Caelin’s citizens would comment idly on the strange part of the night where two women, seemingly in the sky, screamed in thrilled happiness loud enough for half the city to hear.

\--

In the feasting hall below, the numbers of the partygoers may have been reduced by about half due to the advanced hour and inebriation of the evening, but dance was rife as a locally renowned band made up mostly of strings and brass played a wide assortment of frantic folk dances. It was thankfully a dull moment of the piece, as the standing bass rumbled its deep melody, that all listening had their reveries and revelries interrupted by a loud, consistent thumping from above.

“By the Saint!” Lucius exclaimed from the comfy recess of Raven’s lap, as all eyes went skyward and saw the strong keratinous hooves of a Pegasus in full flight dipping down and lightly kicking the thick surface of the great glass pyramid that made up the castle’s massive skylight.

“Why, that’s Huey!” Eliwood, drink in hand, remarked calmly despite the surprised chaos now interrupting around them.

Thankfully, Marcus, feeling his age, had not had much to drink and was quick to bark orders as he rose to his feet – “Knights of Pherae, we’re on the clock!” he shouted, rallying the visiting party’s bannermen and directing them towards one side of the room. “Get to that northern pulley _now_!”

Soldiers in varying states of dress and sobriety pulled themselves from chairs and conversations and, with a half-assed war cry, piled over each other to grab hold of the first dangling rope.

In Kent’s absence, it was Sain who rallied the rest, accepting the duty instantly as he saw just who was seated atop the Pegasus desiring entry. “Knights of Caelin!” He roared. “This is our house, let’s open it up! All on the southern pulley!”

The action became symmetrical as the soldiers massed on both sides of the hall, heaving their way through – the strained stretching of thick rope and the dull creaking of iron began to sound as, inch by inch, the men pulled the two prismatic halves of the skylight to the side, exposing the hall to the cool outside air. It was tense going, with Huey unable to enter the thin divide without folding away his wings and thus risking plummeting to the ground.

“Come on Marcus, you old fffffart!” Sain yelled as he huffed from across the room. “Pull!”

“Hold your tongue, you slacker!” the older knight yelled back. “Put your back into it, men!”

A last, colossal heave that earned a grunt of effort from everyone participating, and finally the crack was wide enough – and as the majestic wingspan of the Pegasus slid through the opening both impromptu armies collapsed in stinking piles of sweat, alcohol and complaints. Lucius watched, wide-eyed, as Lyn and Florina descended on their steed, now flapping its wings softly to guide its descent towards the evacuated centre of the dance floor. It struck the monk as a divine entrance, this noble creature clad in white bringing heavenly messengers.

“Go on,” Raven encouraged him. “Make it special. You know you want to.”

Beaming, Lucius nodded and hopped to his feet – drawing from within his robes an arcane tome, its golden binding shimmering as he invoked its power. As he summoned the magic within it, he tempered the spellbook’s strength – what would have been a vicious and focused beam of light in combat here manifested as a projectile that weakly lobbed itself into the air. Lyn and Florina watched as it arced over their heads and detonated, bringing down over their head a scattering of harmless motes of light that failed to burn or hurt – instead just making them glow as the pair, fresh in love, arrived home.

Eliwood started a round of applause as Huey touched ground and the two, holding each other, shared another kiss in the moment – and there, witnessed by friends and shining iridescent in the Saint’s blessings, the promise of their adoration had been crowned. Soon, all was applause in the hall as lovers celebrated, partygoers gawked, and all gathered marvelled at this – a rare moment of true and unquestioned beauty.

\--

“Hey,” Mark nudged the other man, still wallowing on the ground in self-pity. “Are you okay?”

Lord Melville sat up. Kent’s right hook had done a number – his heavily swollen cheek made it impossible for him to close his mouth, which meant exposing its injuries to the world. There were more than a few new gaps in his tooth line, and even more were shown to be cracked or shifted as he moved his tongue around, spitting out the blood.

“Who’re ya?” He managed to take out, talking slowly so that he could be understood. “Wha’ time is id?”

“I’m with the Caelin host,” Mark said, using his old cover. “And it’s nearly midnight.”

“Then ya’d bedda moov fast.” Melville said. “I ain’ leddin’ you shits ged away wid it.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

The slighted lord croaked out a truly sinister laugh from behind all the pooled liquid. “Affer tha’ _savage_ ,” he spat into the grass, “wen’ an’ hit me, I wen’ an’ called my… retainer.” He struggled with the last word. “Told ‘er if I wazzn’t back by mi’nigh, to call my men, march ‘em in, take wha’ they could and ged us outta here.”

It was Melville’s turn then to narrow his eyes, his injured lids making the movement go lower than should’ve been possible. “An’ I told ‘em ta rough up good anyone who geds in der way.”

Mark looked back at the castle, so seemingly tranquil, then back to the injured man. “You’re bluffing.”

“Wanna pud money on tha’, scholar? I dun care wha’ habbens to me anymore.”

At that moment, the giant clock on the town hall clicked over – a highly audible shift in the mechanism as it prepared to strike the bell on the next minute. In sixty seconds, the first deep tone of midnight would ring throughout Caelin – the thought of this moment sent a comprehensive, foreboding shiver down Mark’s spine. Melville, having heard the noise also, spat another globule of blood and saliva into the grass in order to talk.

“Uh-oh,” he managed to intone, a sick grin spread across his demented features. “Ya’d bedda get movin’.”

With not another word to the crumpled scum Mark jumped to his feet and dashed in the direction of the Castle entrance – and just about bumped into the green-haired Lowen, who was presumably returning from urinating in the bushes to avoid the toilet queue.

“Lowen!” Mark yelled as he passed. “I want that man in the grass arrested and thrown in the dungeon!”

The knight instinctively saluted without thinking – a born soldier. “Yes, Mark!”

He was halfway to reaching Melville’s incapacitated form before Lowen’s brain realised what he’d said; he pivoted in the grass, scanning the castle doorway for any sign of the man who’d barked the order.

“Wait… Mark?”

\--

The tactician reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner. Every hallway, every carpet, every inch of this castle had become familiar to him – but all that memory felt like it had been mere preparation for this. The people on his mind at this moment were the ones he told himself, over and over, that he could leave behind… but he had saved their lives many times. The thought struck him again. It all felt like preparation, like investment, like simple rehearsal for this moment. All of Mark’s commands, his saving throws, his last-ditch efforts, and desperate manoeuvres, it all felt to be in service of the sprint ahead of him. Like his friends, all of them, were here tonight just to be saved by him.

One.

Last.

Time.

As the clock struck midnight and the first tone rung, he began to sprint. He ran, his legs obeying the simplest, most instinctual of exercises – they pumped, back and forth in percussive motion as he ran with pure deadly panic on his face and ice running through his veins. Fear convulsed his chest, sending his heart on a joyride as it pounded against the boundaries of his ribcage. His legs were furiously dispelling the lactic acid that threatened to build as the thinking man was forced to expend his energy well beyond its usual limits.

Five tones had passed now.

His cloak was slowing him down, the restrictive hem of the long robes restricting the span his legs could reach. He thought nothing of discarding it, tearing the pins out with one frenzied pull of his arm and feeling the massive thing fall down his body – he nearly lost his balance on the cloth as it fell underfoot, but in the simple shirt and trousers he now wore alone his stride was increased. He regained balance and kept going, nearly forgetting the pull off the embarrassing nightcap and throw it to the ground as well.

Nine tones gone.

His head lolled around, flopping atop his neck as he ran, his breath came in big gulps and great expellings of air as his body was pushed to its embarrassingly small limit. The stitch’s dagger slipped between his ribs, stifling his breath and twisting his lungs. The veins and nerves in his legs were burning as though someone had poured that revolting alcoholic spirit from earlier into his innards. His lungs seized at his chest as though they were out of capacity and his heart was about to give in, but he kept running – the doors were in sight.

The tactician could hear shouts, raised voices, exclamations, he could see bodies moving in frantic motion, and the glimmering of the room as it was bathed in an unnatural light – fire! The last ringing tone of the tower’s great timepiece sounded, stretching vast into the night as, closing his eyes and dislodging the panicked tears from them, Mark held out his arms and flung open the doors to the dining hall.

Inside, bathed in the unnatural yellow light of Lucius’ tome, the once-difficult evening had been reborn in happiness. Eliwood and Ninian led the couples in dance, as a sweet swaying tune was played – the cello sounded as if the very trees were talking, and the violin and viola danced around it in agreement. The parents-to-be were ebullient in their undiluted happiness, Eliwood watching his feet to make sure nothing tried to trip his two beloveds as they danced within the one body.

Lucius had his head on Raven’s shoulder. The cute-haired man had just about fallen asleep, lulled into dozing by the even-tempered light of Elimine’s miracles and the comforting touch of his Lord Raymond’s hand as it reassuringly wrapped the monk in his warmth.

Everywhere Mark looked he saw happiness – Kent was sobering up, the man swaying softly to the music with Fiora as Wil, gathered around the keg, shared a drink and swapped stories with her about their mutually beloved old comrades. They then raised their glass as they were joined by the mighty Isadora, who was bringing the whole bottle of red with her. Marcus, the last one seated at the tables, watched the party like a hawk; and one would think him displeased if they didn’t care to glance at the corner of his mouth – the light upward slant indicating that he couldn’t be happier.

Lyn and Florina, next to their esteemed visitors on the floor, were similarly dancing – only, to call it dancing would be an insult. It was a ballet, nothing less than a virtuosic display of youth and strength and the movement of bodies. As they moved in battle, fast, focused and deadly – so they moved in love, the sound of their own laughter mingling and settling into the sustained melody of the band. Mark saw the difference in their movements together – the trust between them, already immense, now had veins and capillaries to give it real life. Watching the two, newly in love, and the kinetic transfer of their bodies as they celebrated that simplest of changes, Mark’s breath was delighted to finally be taken by the sight.

And then, just as Mark’s rational mind kicked back in, reminding him of possibility of Melville’s threat? He saw Sain in the corner, a woman in his arms with whom he was sharing a long and delightful kiss – not just any woman, he was shocked to see, but the soft-faced retainer of the disgraced Lord Melville.

Mark shook his head in disgust at the irony. Just like that, by cool wit of his tongue and firm application of his lips, Sir Sain of Caelin had broken the enemy’s chain of command, averted catastrophe, and possibly saved the lives of half of Lycia’s most important people. The man he hadn’t trusted with any active role in his plan had in truth been the key to its peaceful execution. Internally, the strategist fought the urge to vomit as his psyche revolted at the realisation.

He might’ve imagined it, but Mark swore he saw the green fool turn his head and wink in that last microsecond before Mark finished taking in the image of the room, and time seemed to resume.

And then, of course, all eyes turned to see who had entered.

Silence reigned immediately at the sight of him, and all went still save for jaws dropping to nearly hit the floor. Dancers stopped mid-motion, the surfaces of drinks went still with disuse, and conversations ceased as familiar faces beheld the impossible sight of Mark the tactician, panting, poorly dressed, and wild-eyed – but there.

The silence lasted a second or longer more, until Lyn, inescapable joy on her face, unhooked the Mani Katti off her waist and threw the thing to the ground with a clatter for emphasis.

“I _KNEW_ IT!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

And just like that, the floodgates were open. Mark found himself swarmed on all sides by people he had fought with and people who had heard of him; he was pressed in first of all by Lyn, who squeezed him so hard he was risen off the ground – the band resumed playing, and the party kept going, only now with him counted as a participant. The reckoning that Mark had imagined failed to arrive, the deep sorrow of his acknowledgement not seeing fit to materialise. From his slightly airborne position, robbed of breath but able to see the myriad of appreciative faces now encircling him, Mark was able to catch Florina’s eye and directed a proud smile at her. Catching the gesture, she winked back at him – not another word of thanks being necessary or wanted.

He was lowered back down and allowed to breathe, but Lyn apparently had no intention of letting him go any time soon. “Mark!” She howled. “My Mark!”

The besieged man looked around at all these people that he told himself were insufferable. He had maintained this supposed truth as self-evident for so long that he had begun to believe it – but here, among those people and in the arms of the girl who once had found him on the plains, he now found himself smiling. No more letting go; it was time to grab hold.

He returned Lyn’s hug.

\--

“Tell me, Lord Melville, how often do you find yourself commanding soldiers?”

“Ah… just once recently, Lord Eliwood…”

Three hours Melville had wasted away in his cell before Mark had bothered to tell anyone about him. He’d been patched up hastily by the very tired, nightrobe-clad cleric , so his speech was legible once more. Despite this, he was still a hideous sight – and he had a squirming voice sick with guilt, as none of his plans for tonight had involved him being interrogated by the Marquess of Pherae. Mark, for his part, now watched quietly from the corner of the room. Occasionally, Melville’s eyes darted to him with a mix of suspicion and fear. What he had said to Mark in the grounds, after all, was tantamount to a confession.

“Don’t worry about my associate, milord.” Eliwood assumed control. “I’m the one talking at the moment. Just once, you say?”

“Yes… a bandit group seized an unused fort of ours. We had to respond.”

“Good! A fort means you brought armour.” Eliwood paced around the room. “Have you ever performed a break and scour?”

Melville blinked blankly. “A… a break and scour, milord?”

“So that’s a no. Alright then. Mark, you explain it best.”

The academic term was breach and clear, but Mark wasn’t fussed. “Opponent’s walled up,” he explained. “Lobbing arrows and spells over the boundary. But there’s a small weakness in that wall, so you get a small force to break through it and sweep the vulnerable ranged units on the other side. Break, then scour.”

“You still following, Lord Melville?” Eliwood kept things sharp.

“Y-yes, Marquess…”

“Good. Go on, Mark.”

“For the breakage, it usually takes a good few whacks to cave the wall in. You want a big guy with an axe, or lance. From my army? Dart and Oswin were usually good candidates. But because the enemy sees it happening, when that wall goes down you need to capitalise fast,” Mark paused for effect. “You need someone who can dart past any defensive units and dispatch the weaker ones efficiently.”

Eliwood began setting up the punchline. “So who from our friends? Karel? Guy perhaps?”

Mark played along. “Oh, no. They weren’t nearly fast enough.”

“Is that so? Who then?”

“Why, only Lyndis of Sacae could suffice.”

Melville audibly gulped, a fearful sound that was only enhanced by his ruined mouth.

“And how did she fare?” Eliwood asked.

“Why, I once saw her sword draw blood before the last brick had hit the ground. I’ve always maintained that there was no man walking who could stop Lyn at full pelt. Horseback, full plate, swordreaver, it didn’t matter. She was just faster, and just better. To bandits she was death in blue, among mages, the knife in a firefight.” Mark stepped out of the corner, grinning. “I should know,” he snarled. “I commanded her to do it.”

The wound-faced Lord stammered nervously. “Y-you two are just trying to scare me!”

“Oh, but you should be scared of her, Lord Melville.” Eliwood leaned in. “You’re lucky she didn’t close in, draw one of her two legendary blades, and gut you from nose to navel.”

“She wouldn’t’ve!”

“Want to put money on that, you scum?” Mark echoed back to him, genuine anger showing through. “You threatened the woman she loves.”

Mark retreated back to the shadows, needing to calm down as Eliwood nodded respectfully at him. His job was completed however, with Melville being suitably panicky as the visiting Marquess took the fore.

“You and your men are gonna spend the night in these dungeons. Your retainer’s job application to work here in Caelin has already been accepted. Then, tomorrow, my grand general Marcus and twenty of his best are going to march you and all your men back towards home, no armour and no horses.”

“But… that is House Worde’s property!”

“We’re not taking you back to Worde,” Eliwood revealed, his voice heightened with satisfaction. “We’re leaving you in Laus. You can explain to Lord Erik what you tried to pull here. Personally, I think he’ll turn you over to Hector, who’ll send you to Araphen, who’ll send you to Khathelet, and so on until you’ve grovelled before every lord in Lycia. Then we’ll send you home, just in time for your brother’s ascension ceremony.”

The tactician took the pitcher of water at rest on the cell’s table and poured the contents out on the tiles. The invigorating drink splashed and slathered itself over the stone floor with deliberate slowness. “Drink plenty of water,” Mark said. “It gets dry in these cells at night.” The man then turned and, without another word, strode out the open door to leave the dungeons. Eliwood lingered a while longer and took his time sliding shut the iron cell door and locking it. He turned to leave himself, but paused for a moment more:

“You know,” he said, “I really do think Lyn said it best herself; Marquess Ranward of Worde. That’s just got a great ring to it, don’t you think?” Eliwood took big breath in and exhaled with exaggerated satisfaction, the action putting a very guilty smile on face as he waved the man goodnight. “Hail the Marquess.”

Once he was out of the cell’s sight line Eliwood quickened his pace. He jogged up the stairs to catch up to Mark, wanting to say something, but swallowing the thought once he’d reached the man.

“That was pretty good of you, to not tell Lyn that I was here,” Mark said suddenly. “Thank you.”

Eliwood smiled, happy for the discussion. “It was the least I could do. And about the conversation we had earlier, I’m-”

“Don’t say it,” Mark warned him. “Don’t you bloody say it. The things I said were completely out of line, whether I like it or not. I’m the one apologising.”

“There’s no need for tha-”

“Get fucked. I’m sorry.”

Eliwood laughed as he walked, sound which stabbed the air with its fine noise. “Well,” he started as they reached the doors to the hall, “I suppose I’ll forgive you if you humour me. How about we finally have that drink, old friend?” Eliwood extended his hand to shake, firm and locked before him.

Mark took it, but then surprised the lord by pulling the man into a quick embrace. It lasted only a moment, but it was enough for a lot of old ills between the two to suddenly seem very far away indeed. Mark spoke through his smile and deigned to answer his question.

“Lead on, Maestro.”

\--

By this point in the small hours, Lyn, Florina, and Ninian were among the very last in the hall; besides them maybe ten now remained, with many of those dozing, or refusing to finish their drowsy conversations. Indeed, Ninian was on her last legs. She had not drank a drop, of course, but considered the fact that she was still awake to be a miracle. She perked up, just slightly, as her husband and Mark re-entered the hall.

“Eli,” she cooed, holding out her hands and flexing them needily for him to take as he approached. “Is it time for us to sleep yet?”

“Just a minute more, Nini. I finally got this guy,” he gestured to Mark, who had retrieved two small glasses of red from the barrel and brought them over, “to down a last one. Been a stretch between nightcaps. When was it last?”

“Four in the morning,” Mark confirmed, handing Eliwood his glass, “the morning after your ascension ceremony. We were so far gone, that you were just… _convinced_ , word of god, that mixing a vulnerary into your mead would sober you up.”

The mental image of Hector, Eliwood and their tactician staggering around in the pantries of Castle Pherae in desperate search of a hangover cure as day broke proved too much for Lyn, and she laughed, loudly enough for a few of the other heads in the hall to turn wearily.

The red-headed Marquess and his long-absent friend clinked their glasses together, the light chime thankfully not travelling too far in the tired haze of the very early morning. Mark let the aromatic, leathery taste touch his lips and revelled inwardly at the sensation. It was, all too appropriately, a reunion he had with the drink – just the latest in a series of reunions that night.

“Oh!” Eliwood suddenly remembered. “Ninian, while you wait, did you give Lyn her gift?”

“Ah,” the cerulean woman realised, her eyes widening with surprise through her tiredness. “Of course. I… ah…” she had patted down her dress in a brief panic, before her fingers closed around the object and relief flooded her face.

“You two…” Lyn scolded. “That Wo Dao was plenty enough already. What have you gone and gotten me now-”

The plainswoman was cut off as Ninian produced the item. Unwrapped and presented without ceremony, in the dancer girl’s delicate hands was a simple wooden flute, unadorned and unspoiled in its simplicity. Mark gasped at the sight of the thing.

“This,” Ninian began as if anyone needed the reminder, “was Nils’.”

The stunned silence that had ensued went unbroken, so the woman continued. “I… we… all grieved for many years. I keep reminding myself that he is not dead, that he is merely in the other world… but he is gone.”

Eliwood continued. “As you may know, after Roy’s birth myself, Hector and Pent will be sealing the Durandal away once more, in the cave north of Ostia where it was at rest.” The man then placed his arm around his wife’s waist reassuringly. “That sword is part of Ninian and I’s past, but once Roy is born, we intend to leave the past where it lies and focus on our future. For me, returning the sword shows that resolve.”

Ninian nodded. “Over Nils I cried many nights,” she confessed, the feelings heavy in her heart. “But as my Eli gives up the sword which allows him to protect us all, I feel I also have to shed my heart of this weight.” At last, she turned to Lyndis. “Lyn, it is through you and my brother that my destiny was entwined with my love’s, and our wandering given the chance to gain… purpose.” The dragon woman extended her burdened hand to Lyn. “Nils would want you to have this.”

Lyn, struggling to hold back tears, resisted. “I… I cannot possibly take this, Ninian… it means too much.”

“Yes,” Ninian concurred. “And to you it holds a meaning that none of us have… I realised not long ago that, due to his sacrifice, Lyndis’ Legions are no longer complete.”

Mark had mulled over Nils’ sacrifice many times, but never in this context – it was true. Matthew and Serra had returned to Ostia, Rath to Sacae, Erk to Etruria, Dorcas to Pherae, and Wallace had ended up in Ilia – but Nils was the only member of the party whom, one way or another, had left this world.

“It may have been all of you that helped defeat Nergal,” Ninian said gratefully, “but it began with you, Lyn. Your kind heart and resolute purpose is what started my journey to the happiness that is now,” Ninian shut her eyes sadly, heart pounding with the difficulty of the moment. “So I want you… no, need you, to have this. Because as long as you do, not only is my brother’s song still playing, but he is together with the friends who were the first to give us meaning.”

Opening her eyes, Ninian then looked around – and was somewhat shocked to find that she was the only one of the gathered few who wasn’t crying. She giggled quietly, pondering again briefly on the wonderful fragility of humans. “Come on now, everyone,” she chimed with the effortless reassurance that only she could seem to master, “he wouldn’t want us to be sad.”

Lyn was the first to wipe her eyes, bravely stepping forward. “It would be my honour,” she said, reddened eyes still weeping, “to welcome our absent friend home.”

With an encouraging nod from Ninian, courageous Lyn stifled her sadness and took the flute gently out of the sister’s hand, feeling its smallness and innocence as she clasped it close to her breast. She remembered the boy, whose smile and music had belied a damaged existence, and hoped fervently that, in whatever beckoned beyond the gate, he had found peace and tranquillity at last.

“Thank you,” Lyn breathed, the comment directed not just at Nils or his sister, or Eliwood, or Mark, or her friends, not even her love Florina – it was a universal thing, all-encompassing in its gratitude.

After this moment, Ninian stumbled a little, and her husband was quick to catch her. “I think,” the red-haired man said with a sorry smile, “it’s time we retired for the night. If we’re to stay for the produce festival tomorrow, we will need much rest after having this much fun.”

“You will stay?” Florina asked, her own keenness showing. “Oh, it will be wonderful then!”

“Of course…” Ninian mumbled through her drowsiness. “There is so much to celebrate, after all.”

And with that comment perfectly encapsulating the mood of the moment, the venerable Marquess Pherae and his lady bade their goodnights and retreated, one delicate step at a time, from the hall. And then there were three, Mark downing his wine and turning to face the other two, who were now gazing at each other.

“Think we could ever be like them…?” Florina asked meekly.

“Oh, Florina…” Lyn sighed, pressing the girl’s head lovingly into her. “We don’t need to be.”

Mark tried to withdraw quietly, sensing he was not needed here, but Lyn wouldn’t have a bar of it. “Hey!” she addressed him sharply. “You’d better not even think of trying to get out of here for a least a week,” she commanded. “If I have to, I’ll have you bunk with Melville.”

“I’ll stay until morning,” Mark said, “After that, I must leave for Bern.” It was a lie, one that he wasn’t sure why he’d told.

“I don’t believe you,” Lyn replied, cutting right through. “You’re just trying to take off again like usual.” She then took Florina’s hand and both of them walked over to him, where he weakly and fruitlessly tried to escape both of them throwing their arms around him in fond embrace.

“We’re not letting go until you promise to stay here for a while. Let’s catch up, have fun, enjoy this… this peace you won us.” Lyn was desperate in her pleading. “Just say yes, or I’ll have to use my secret weapon.”

“Secret weapon?” Mark dared to ask.

Suddenly, Florina withdrew from the hug as Lyn grabbed Mark by both shoulders, keeping him firmly planted in place and wheeling him around to face the delicate other girl. Florina then took both of Mark’s hands in hers and gazed, unbroken, into the tactician’s eyes with a saccharine expression of pleading.

“Please,” she begged, voice wavering with wanting. “Please stay with us.”

A million different and colourful curse words rampaged through Mark’s mind at this – but only one word he could possibly bring himself to say.

“Yes,” he said, as the word lifted all the weight of loneliness from his shoulders. “Of course I’ll stay.”

\--

Eliwood placed the great heraldic mantle of Pherae delicately upon the durable wooden frame supplied to support it; the great jumble of silver, gold and cloth falling upon the simulated shoulders and body of the thing with unceremonious heft. Eliwood brushed it down quickly with his hand as he breathed a sigh of relief for finally having the heavy thing off. Ninian giggled softly from the bed behind him. Eliwood turned to face her, smiling at her in her roomy cerulean nightgown, back supported by headboard and a hive of cushions, one hand resting on her distended belly.

“You laugh all you want now,” he laughed as he unbuttoned his shirt, “because as soon as our boy’s out of there, you’re going straight back to wearing one yourself!”

“Nooooooo…” Ninian groaned in jest, both of them laughing as Eliwood continued to change. With his shirt now off, the woman examined his bare torso, taking in its tapestry of dips and rises – with the occasional combat scar here and there. Just as her husband prepared his nightwear, she noticed the slightest of cuts on his left shoulder, so thin that it was invisible unless under light as it was now.

“That scar on your shoulder,” she breathed. “It looks different under this light…”

“What, this one?” Eliwood asked, patting the appropriate place with his hand. “It healed up fairly well, thankfully. I remember being very concerned about it when I was younger!” He laughed at the memory of a frustrated adolescent Eliwood, before his face tinged pink. “…But you know the story.”

“Tell it again?” Ninian asked, smiling at her husband now being lost in memories. “You’re happy when you remember it.”

Eliwood smiled, and obliged. “I got it just after I’d turned fourteen,” he began, revisiting the peaceful time in his head. “Lord Uther was meeting with my father for the first time as Marquess of Ostia, and brought Hector with him so that he wouldn’t have to worry about the ass causing a ruckus back home. Hector had just switched disciplines from the sword to the axe, and he was… overeager to spar.”

“Did it hurt?” Ninian asked with an intake of breath, as though she could feel the bite of steel second-hand.

“Eh, no more or less than any other wound,” Eliwood confessed. He then added, his voice a touch more distant as he recollected the dispute, “it was easy enough to forgive him.”

Sensing her husband’s feelings turn bittersweet, Ninian reached out with her voice. “I’m sorry he couldn’t make it tonight, Eli,” she cooed softly. “We’ll see him again. And soon.”

“Yes,” Eliwood determined, hope blossoming in heart as he turned back to his wife. “We will. The three of us.”

“Ooh, ooh, Eli!” Ninian interrupted his fond reverie, placing her hand on her rounded stomach. “Come quickly, he’s moving!”

Now dressed for rest, the man hastily made his way over to the bed and placed himself between the sheets alongside his wife. Eliwood shuffled over to her, embracing his wife as he placed his ear on her belly and listened to his son making slight, delicate motions in the aether of the womb.

“He’s going to be wonderful,” Ninian said, stroking Eliwood’s hair with her hand.

“Yes,” he concurred, only now realising how tired he was. “He will.”

As the three of them lay there, Eliwood murmured peacefully. “Nini?”

“Hmm?”

“Sing to us.”

Ninian, eyes closed, humoured him. “Okay. Which one?”

“The lullaby,” Eliwood suggested. “But not the boring one… the other one.”

Ninian mumbled softly in agreement, and with her hand she guided her love upwards, nuzzling his neck into the crook of her shoulder, where his head came to rest just below hers. She stretched her voice and began, letting the notes fall softly across the bedsheets that covered them both.

 _“Sleeping boy, so soon to wake,”_ she sang, hands resting on her distended belly. _“Angel of, the dawn that breaks,”_

Eliwood sank deeper into her soft skin as she continued. _“You are our prayer, you our mend.”_

She let this overture hang gently in the air, waiting for the flourish of a music that wasn’t present, and then recreated the non-existent melody. _“You are how,”_ she opined, _“The pain all ends.”_

Eliwood’s arms, hugging both her and Roy tightly, became imperceptibly more firm as Ninian intoned, _“No more friends hurt, in our name – nor loved ones, we could not save.”_

 _“Sleeping boy, our son of strife,”_ Ninian pleaded, the words connecting the young family with their wishing. _“So small, sweet, so full of life.”_

Throughout this, both father and mother remained strong, the song their armour in the same breath as it was the thing that pricked them. It bandaged their wounds as it drew blood, answered questions as it produced them. It brought tears to their eyes just as they refused to let it have them cry.

 _“May our love,”_ the woman sang, her tongue shuddering as it produced the word. _“Protect your smile – ev’ry hour, paid for with trial.”_

Now Ninian closed her eyes and gripped tight both of her flame-headed loves, the one within and the one without, as if to protect them with the force of her voice alone. _“But for now, here in our arms,”_ this crescendo, delicate though it was, thundered through the couple’s heart with the weight of its request. _“Just rest, now!”_ Ninian pleaded, _“Away from harm.”_ The fervent prayer burned with desire in the air, driving her towards the core of her wishing as she looked at her dear Eliwood.

Her eyes rested on the man. She hadn’t noticed when it had happened, but Eliwood was asleep, his eyes closed but his mouth straight, as if he had been determined to stay up through the night to stand guard, and fallen asleep at the post. His chest rose and fell peacefully, his lean frame with its scars a reminder of the odds he had defied and the people he had protected – or, more tragically, failed to protect.

Ninian now leaned over, the child within her making the motion difficult, and kissed her Eli gently on his burdened brow, at which it seemed to relax instinctively, just a little. With only a few lines left to the song, she decided to finish it in the hope that one of her two loves could hear it.

 _“And though the day, has gone dim… sun sunk past, horizon’s rim,”_ She looked up to the sky, seeming to gaze past the roof, turrets, and battlements – to the world outside, and the world beyond. _“Still I wait, and still I sing,”_ she sang, her voice softening to a close. _“For wounds to close, love to bring.”_

Ninian once more beheld the man in her arms, and the child in her belly, and pulled them closer to her heart so as to never let go. _“My blessing lived, my seeds of joy…”_ she whispered, _“Are you my Eli, and you, my Roy.”_

Blowing out the final candle adorning the table at her bedside, the lady Ninian settled into the softness of her bed, nuzzled her face into that of her husband’s, and waited for sleep or morning. Whichever came first.

\--

Alone in Lyn’s room, she and Florina danced. Their breath was broken by gasps and shuddering and giggles that flew around them as they spun and flourished to a music that wasn’t there. When they came together, hands clasped and faces close in guilty-faced joy, Lyn risked a triple threat of kisses that made their way from Florina’s soft cheek to her softer lips, enjoying the sensations.

“I can’t believe it took me something like this to realise,” Lyn murmured through husky, breathy tones. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

Florina said nothing at first, merely sinking into Lyn’s touch. “Lyn,” she murmured. “I want you to tell me, every day, what I can do to keep you with me.” She said this in a way that seemed worried, even despite the sheer disbelief of happiness that radiated through it.

Lyn’s smile only widened as she held the girl ever tighter, feeling the soft silken coils of her hair and the beautiful, encompassing warmth of her body. “Answer’ll be the same every day,” she murmured back. “Just be you.”

The position was held for a moment, before Florina couldn’t help but ask an unpleasant question, one that succeeded, instantly and effortlessly, in obliterating the mood with no hope of recovery.

“What’s that smell?”

“Oh, no way,” Lyn wheeled around to face her vanity, and there, sure enough, was the remaining lump of soft golden cheese oozing onto the plate. “He even left the cheese. What a guy.”

“A-are you seriously gonna eat that?”

“Of course! And you should too! It’s really good…”

“B-but it smells!”

“That’s the point!”

“Ah, it’s… certainly an, acquired taste…” Florina choked out, as Lyn held the plate up to her nose. She squirmed uncomfortably.

“Yep,” Lyn agreed, beginning to slice the stuff into remotely even globules. “And we have all the time in the world to help you acquire it,” she turned back, eyes looking back at Florina as she produced a piece of the odorous food atop an inoffensive chunk of bread left over from the party.

Lyn positioned it between their two mouths. “No more wasted time for you and I.” She said. “We both have learning to do.”

“Lyn…” Florina whispered through joyous sniffles, her nose wrinkling but her eyes watering.

“Starting… now.”

They bit down together.

\--

Mark lazily made his way through the feasting hall, now completely silent and totally empty, save for one nameless soldier collapsed in a snoring pile at the table, and another, more familiar one who was barely awake in his own little corner.

“Hey,” Mark drowsily nudged Sain’s foot, causing the knight to open his eyes painfully.

“What do you want?” Sain asked, his good humour seemingly all but expended until morning.

“I thought you’d wooed that girl,” Mark jabbed, every word a struggle. “Don’t tell me you struck out.”

“What,” Sain droned, “did you come in here,” he yawned loudly, “just to laugh at me? I thought you always had better… things to do.”

Mark swallowed his pride. “Fuck, man,” he groaned. “Everyone’s in a relationship. Can I go to sleep with you tonight?”

The man gave Mark a look that was partly analytical, but mostly just tired. He wordlessly shifted over slightly to the side, making more room on the little improvised seat he’d found himself. Noisily and with great effort, the tactician climbed down next to the knight and settled into the crook of his arm, before producing a tough leather wineskin from earlier and taking a swig.

“What’s that,” Sain groaned, “Kent’s poison?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Should make this easier for both of us.” Mark offered him the oblivion-giving drink.

Sain thought it over for a moment, but waved it away. “Nah,” he said. “You’re alright, Mark.”

Mark looked at the skin a moment more also, then tossed it aside with a last sigh of the evening and cuddled without reservations into the knight’s drowsy warmth.

“You too, Sain. You too.”

 

\--

FIN

\--


End file.
